

Class 

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PASSION PAST. 


BY 


/ 



Madam Leight 

~YYl/v& & 


Dmm, ^UMaI 


Take it reader, idly passing, 

These like other idle lines. 

Take it critic, great at classing 
Subtle genius and its signs, 

But 0 reader, be thou dumb ! 

Critic let no sharp wit come ; 

Or the hand that wrote and blurred 
Will not write another word. 


— Mulock, 


O 


f\ * 


Charleston, W. Va. 
DONNALLY PUBLISHING HOUSE. 
— 1897 .— 





Copyright, May, 1897, by Madam Leighton and Daughter. 

A t 



V 




PREFACE. 


Whatever may be our individual work in the future, it is 
probable that this book would never have been written had 
it not been for my young daughter and associate. 

The plot was a conception of her youthful mind, and 
when no older than fourteen she had written several chap- 
ters. Two or three years later, I thoroughly revised and 
completed the work. 

We beg the indulgence of the reader for the many im- 
perfections of our first effort, of which he can not feel more 
conscious than we. Madame Leighton. 




PASSION PAST 


CHAPTER I. 

“This day we fashion Destiny, our web of fate we spin.”— Whittiek. 

The hour is near eight on a warm June morning. The 
exact spot shaded by the wide spreading branches of a beech 
tree standing at the foot of the White Mountains, in the 
State of New Hampshire. In this spot reclining full length 
on the soft green carpet nature has spread all about, is a 
young man whose sole occupation seems to be that of watch- 
ing the smoke from his cigar rise in circles above his head, 
then gradually fade away into thin air. 

The young man looks very handsome, and lazy and com- 
fortable in his negligee suit of grey, with a white straw hat 
tilted over his nose as if to shut out any stray sunbeam 
struggling to reach it, through the branches above. 

But alas for human hopes ! Two unpleasant convictions 
are in the same moment forced upon his senses — that he 
has reached the end of his last cigar, and that he hears the 
sound of wagon wheels in the distance. 

Too indolent to wholly overcome the inertia necessary to 
standing, he half rises to a sitting posture, then throwing 
away the stub he watches the team leisurely making its way 
to Raymond, six miles westward. 

He looks at it carelessly enough at first, but suddenly the 
sweet glad tones of a young voice fall upon his ear, when 


6 


PASSION PAST. 


quickly springing to his feet^he steps back into the friendly 
thicket which serves as a screen between himself and any 
passer by. 

To his dismay the wagon slows up at the very spot, ap- 
parently for the girl to alight, for she half rises, then once 
more sinks back upon the board across the wagon “bed.” 
But, to his satisfaction the two, for two there are, seem too 
thoroughly absorbed in their own simple affairs to take any 
notice of surrounding objects. 

“She makes a dainty picture any way with that old sun 
hat as a frame for the winsome face. Far ahead of any- 
thing I’ve seen around Parkhurst. But what a dilemma ! 
If I cut and run they’re sure to hear me, and, if I stand 
here I’m bound to hear them, so which shall it be? I’ll 
stay,” and suiting the action to the words he slips noiselessly 
down on the grass. 

“I do think uncle,” he hears the girl say, with a tender 
little pat of a dimpled hand upon the rough coat sleeve be- 
side her, “you’ve the nicest things for market to-day. One 
dozen chickens, ten pounds of auntie’s best, so ‘yaller an’ 
solid’ as she calls it and the early vegetables. My ! uncle, 
you’re going to be rich some day. Here, in this pocket is 
the list of things I want you to bring home, so don’t loose 
it, that’s a dear. You know auntie says this dear old pate 
gets muddled up sometimes, though I call it a base calurn- 
my.” 

“I guess its kindy muddled this mornin’ anyhow,” comes 
the answer, in a patient drawling voice that somehow seems 
to suit the patient face in which is a half sad, half weary 
look as it is turned to the bright laughing one at his side. 

“No baby,” the man goes on, “I don’t s’pose I’ll ever be 
rich, but eight hundred is a nice little sum to throw away 
fur tixin’s an’ things when my little gal takes it in ’er curly 
head some uv these young fellers is so much purtier ’n ’er 
old uncle, eh?” 

But such a hint at disloyalty meets Avith a pout and shake 
of the brown head. “I Avont talk to you if you say another 
word like that uncle.” 


PASSION PAST. 


7 


“I do believe they've settled down for an hour’s chat. 
Was a man ever in such a fix before? yet the piquant face 
is worth studying. It is as pure and sweet as a flower,” 
muses the silent watcher crouching lower. 

The possessor of the “piquant face” can be called neither 
a “Poet’s Dream” nor a “Summer Idyll,” but a real flesh 
and blood damsel of sixteen or seventeen years. The eyes 
and hair are dark brown, the former, tender, bewitching, 
half defiant, wholly pure and childlike; the latter tied back 
with black ribbon. The mouth is sweet with the softest and 
and tenderest lines about it; the nose is slightly uptilted, 
and above it a brow which shows intelligence of no mean 
order. 

The girl is clad in a dress of blue gingham with a ruffled 
white apron over it. An old sun hat of huge dimensions 
hangs by the strings around her neck. The setting is surely 
not a costly one for a gem so pretty. 

“No child, I’ll not furgit the things ye want,” now ven- 
tures the man conciliatingly, regarding the pouting face, and 
he feels more than repaid as the brown eyes again beam up- 
on him, and feels another pat of the dimpled hand as a re- 
ward for the diplomatic weakness. 

“There’s auntie’s aprons you know uncle, and the book,” 
enumerating with a business air upon her pretty fingers, 
“Mrs. Kinne says the book is the best that Bulwer ever 
wrote and she’d like for me to read it — then there’s my 
dress pattern to make the pretty dress you bought for me 
just as soon as auntie and I finish the shirts for somebody 
I know.” 

“What a busy little budy it is!” the man observes, “I 
ought to be a millinair sometime like Mr. Astor ’n Mr. 
Gold; mebbe I will be sometime, who knows, with twosich 
women as you an’ yer ant is.” 

“Dear uncle,” with a happy little laugh and a third pat 
on the coat sleeve, “we don’t want the riches of the 
Astors or the Goulds, do we? Our small minds would sink 
under the weight of so much grandeur, I fear, and I am 


8 


PASSION PAST. 


sure neither is as happy as we. Fdon’t believe they love 
one another as you and I do.” 

“I’m sartin’ they don’t,” he answers fondly ; but a 
dreamy, wistful expression has already come into the sunny 
face as she goes on reflectively : 

“I wonder if I could take kindly to riches and ease and 
laziness, uncle? I — ” 

“Riches an’ laziness? What’s come over ye to talk of 
sich things to-day es riches an’ laziness? I never knowed 
ye to do it before.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, uncle. A covetous feeling came over 
me for an instant. I had a dream last night — the same that 
comes so often now as I grow older. Yes, the dream sug- 
gested it, I suppose,” and the tender lips quiver and the 
brown eyes grow misty. 

“Glennie,” the man says with a touch of anxiety in his 
voice, “yer ant hesn’t bin sayin’ nuthin’ to ye, hes she — 
thet is I mean out’n the common run and scoldin’, uv 
course?” 

“Why no, uncle, nothing out of the common run ever 
happens at our house. I wish there would. It’s the same- 
ness that’s so hard. As for the scolding, we couldn’t live 
without it,” and laying her face on the coat sleeve she sud- 
denly breaks down into an hysterical fit of weeping. The 
man puts his arm about her and says shakily : 

“Try an’ bear it, Glennie, fur my sake. I don’t want ye 
to do nothin’ to make ’er mad, or — What did ye dream 
uv?” he finishes irrelevantly. 

“The same one I told you about before — oh, if she had 
but lived !” 

“Dreamt uv who child? not yer ma agin surely !” and his 
face grows white under the tan. “Ye et too much supper 
mebbe. Yer ant’s hot biscut an’ fried chicken’s too heatin’ 
fur yer young blood, to say nothin’ uv the cold beans ; yes, 
it must ’a bin the beans, Glennie.” 

“I never touched the beans last night,” she sobs. 

“Well didn’t ye now? I’m sure I never noticed,” he re- 
turns watching her furtively as she wipes the tears away 


PASSION PAST. 9 

with her apron. “Did ye dream uv brother Jim too — I 
mean yer pa?” 

For the first time the honest blue eyes seem to avoid hers 
at which she vaguely wonders. 

“No. I suppose the reason I don’t dream of papa is be- 
cause I was such a baby when he died ; don’t you think so?” 

“Yes, yes, sartinly ’tis,” he assents. “It stan’s to reason 
ye couldn’t dream uv a pa ye never seen; but what did ye 
dream uv, yer ma, Glennie?” 

“Uncle, tell me, you never deceived me about my mother 
did you?” after a little hesitation replying to his question 
with another, “for in spite of all, I feel sometimes as if she 
were living and I shall yet see her.” 

“Glennie Thornton ! how ye do ramble on !” he cries, 
with a nervous start. “Uv course yer ma’s dead an’ ye 
mus’n’t low yer mind to run on sich idees what aint good fur 
ye. What a turn ye did give me to be sure ! I wouldn’t 
think uv sich dreams no more.” 

She looks at him for a moment too wounded to speak, 
then gives a little defiant laugh. 

“Why, uncle Hiram how can you think of them no more? 
I wish I could dream of mamma every night and always re- 
member. How can you say that?” 

“Yes, sartinly ye do child, I didn’t think,” he mutters, 
with a little catch in his voice. 

“But I cannot, I cannot,” she goes on, giving vent to the 
topic engrossing her. “As I try to shape within my mind 
some definite image of her, or just as a golden haired vision 
becomes almost fixed, it eludes me — is gone. I try in vain 
to recall the dear features and sometimes when I seem on 
the very verge of remembrance, everything vanishes like the 
dream it was. Last night it all seemed so real, her form 
bending over me, the touch of her loving lips upon my own. 
But, as it ever must be, when I awoke she was gone.” 

“How purty ye kin tell anything Glennie ! I’ll never be- 
grudge ye the books thet lies learnt ye so much, an’ made 
ye the smartest gal fur miles around,” a look of something 
like awe on his homely face. “Yes, I’ve always heerd that 


10 PASSION PAST. 

brother Jim’s wife hed blue eyes an’ yaller ha’r,” bemuses* 

“Papa! Mamma! how empty they sound, those two 
names ! What a mockery to one who never has known the 
joy felt by a child of living parents!” she sighs. 

“Thar, thar, dear ! hav'nt I always tried to be a pa an’ 
ma to ye?” he says coaxingly. 

“Oh uncle! of course you have, still, I can not keep 
these things from coming up sometimes.” 

“I s’pose not — though ef ye tit agin it, Glennie. Say, 
baby, ye didn’t know I ’lowed to ast Mrs. Kinne to-day 
about ye takin’ some lessons on the pyauner? an’ then when 
ye learnt to play I’d hev a new one brung out home. Now 
what d’ye say to thet, chicken?” 

“I’d say that you’re the kindest uncle in the world, and I 
love you, and you only,” springing impulsively to her feet 
and kissing the patient face. 

“Oh, say now, child, ye’ll spile yer old uncle ef ye go on 
so.” Yet he flushes with pleasure under the caress. 

“I can never do that — but, uncle,” leaning her elbows on 
his knee and looking wistfully into his eyes, “tell me the 
old story once more, please do ; about my parents, you 
know.” 

“Child!” he cries, “ef 1 b’lieved in signs an’ things I’d 
feel afeerd sunthin was goin’ to hap’n, the way ye harp on 
that.” The girl had never been so persistent before. 

“Just this once, uncle. I will not ask again and some- 
thing may happen, who knows?” 

“An’ it stall’s to reason it soun’s like a new tale every 
time, I s’pose,” he says, giving way, as he always does to 
the coaxing voice. 

“Now, I’m in for the family history,” groans the morti- 
fied listener. 

“Ye know, Glennie, eight or ten year makes a sight o’ 
difference at ween two brothers thet hesn’t the same moth- 
ers,” the man begins as he flicks a monster fly from old 
Pete’s back. “So es years went by me an’ Jim drifted f or- 
der an’ furder apart so to speak, though in the main we 
was both stiddy an’ sober ; but I was always jist plain Hi- 


PASSION PAST. 


11 


ram, an’ Jim’s mind run more on wearin’ store close an' 
fixing. Es I’ve told ye, hard farm work didn’t suit Jim, so 
after father died, seem’d ’s if thar was les’n ever to hold 
him to the old home. At last he says to me one day, ‘Hi- 
ram,’ says he, ‘I can’t stan’ it no longer, I must leave ye.’ 
So he jist thro wed up everything and left me an’ mother.” 

“Uncle, how long ago was that?” 

“I reckon it’s nigh onto twenty year. I never was good 
at figurin’, but es year follered year his letters got scaser an’ 
scaser. One said he was stayin’ in a big wholesale store.” 

“How odd that you could never remember the city, uncle,” 
she again interrupts. 

“Ye know what yer ant says about my head gittin mud- 
dled.” 

“Your’s may at times, but her’s never, and I think she 
would know.” 

“Yes, seems ef, though like me she was never no han’ to 
remember jogerphy names; but to go back, another said he 
was married to a purty little yaller haired thing, an’ they 
lied a little gal.” 

“Who has since grown into the torment of her foolish old 
uncle’s life, for I am that little girl, uncle?” she interposes, 
strangely suspicious for the first time. 

“Who else could it be?” he says rather sharply as he 
turns his eyes to the distant hills, “brother Jim never had 
but the one baby.” 

Can the thought that flits through her brain be called a 
a doubt? 

“Of course it was I, for papa died so soon after.” 

“Yes, jist a little while after me an’ yer ant was married, 
another letter come from yer ma that your pa was dead. 
The city was too much for the poor feller an’ he had to give 
it up,” and though years have passed since then, a tear 
steals down the rugged cheek which he wipes away on his 
coat sleeve. 


CHAPTER II. 


“If I could have seen all those letters,” she says regret- 
fully, while she tries not to see the tear. 

“They’d be a power uv comfort no doubt; but when they 
was wrote we didn’t look forrid to his dyin’, an’ when 
mother went too, an’ Rachael took charge seems if she 
was tidier ’n mother or sunthin’, for she made way with all 
the old letters’n papers without thinkin’ I spose; so that 
was the end uv it all tel the night the woman come with 
you an’ the letter astin’ me an’ yer ant to take ye, thet yer 
poor ma was dead.” 

“And to think that letter went as the others did ! Not 
the tiniest reminder left from my dead parents to their 
child!” 

“Ye know yer ant hates litter like pisen,” he says depre- 
catingly. “An’ then her an' me hasn’t much turn for 
readin’, nuther, an’ you wasn’t growed up es ye air now.” 

She is too unsuspicious to read the guarded evasive re- 
plies and the shifting light in the blue eyes always so true 
and honest. So attributing all these to the emotions oc- 
casioned by sad memories of the past, she throws her arms 
around his neck, saying in a voice, in which notwithstand- 
ing all efforts, the sadness is yet perceptible. 

“Dear uncle Hiram, don’t blame me for fits of depression 
that can not be resisted at times. My whole life has been 
different from other lives. Why have I never been per- 
mitted to associate with even the few children of the neigh- 
borhood? If I ever ask auntie, she always tells me to hush, 
I have too much to do to waste my time in playing. The 


PASSION PAST. 


13 


time has come when I can not be put off with such an an- 
swer, when my heart longs for more. Uncle! uncle! tell 
me ! is there any disgrace connected with my birth? I have 
conceived even this possibility,” she urges pleadingly. 

“Glennie Thornton !” he cries out, “whatever put sich 
an’ idee in yer head? There could’nt ’a bin found in a hull 
days travel a liklier young lad nor yer pa. He was es purty 
an’ innercent — es you, Glennie.” 

“I’m sorry I have worried you uncle. No doubt the 
dream has brought it all up, but we’ll try and forget it. 
Now I am going to iron all those wrinkles out so,” passing 
her hand with mesmeric touch over his brow, nor does she 
cease until he turns a smiling face to her. 

“No, pet; ’tain’t no use rakin’ up old bones thet’s bin 
buried these thirteen year, an’ what always fetches the 
shadders to yer face, so to please him thet loves ye es yer 
own pap never could ’a, try an' look peart an’ happy when 
he comes back to-night, an’ try an’ not talk back to yer 
ant to-day. Will ye?” 

At this the last wistful tremor fades away from her pretty 
face, if not by his illogical reasoning, by the persuasive 
voice. 

“I will promise, uncle. Oh, uncle, do you know we have 
been stopping here an age? Won’t I catch it when I go 
home?” 

“Ef she scolds ye’ll try to bear with ’er, won’t ye? It ’d 
crush the life clean outen me ef anything come between me 
an’ you, Glennie.” 

“Do you love me so much?” 

“Love ye? Child yer my one ewe lam’, the apple uv my 
eye,” he says, feelingly. 

“Nothing shall ever come between us,, not even auntie,” 
she answers softly, her eyes filling. 

But the tears of youth are evanescent and as she springs 
lightly to the ground an instant after she cries merrily : 

“Wait one moment, uncle !” and darting to the roadside 
where j the wild flowers grow in profusion, she breaks off 
several and says as she pins them on his coat ; 


14 


PASSION PAST. 


“There is something for you to look at to-day and every 
time you do so, think of the one who loves you best. 
Good-bye !” 

Two pairs of eyes watch her as she goes flying up the 
road turning once to throw a kiss from her finger tips to 
the old farmer, who, after a hasty glance at a ponderous 
silver watch, makes a somewhat ineffectual effort to hurry 
the two lazy horses into a trot, while the young man follows 
a tiny foot-path for a little way, then steps into the road 
and looks after the girl. 

A merry little brook winds its way through the meadow 
near which stands the white cottage inhabited by the Thorn- 
tons. A foot-path leads from the house to the stream along 
whose banks the trees and underbrush have been allowed to 
grow. These serve as a shade over the mossy stone on 
which we may find Glennie seated an hour later. 

Running east and west is the country road which crosses 
the foot-path scarcely a hundred yards from the spot where 
she sits. 

Ignorant and innocent as the girl is, many youthful fan- 
cies and pretty dreams of a far off future are woven into 
the seams of her upcle’s coarse shirts and her own taste- 
fully made cotton dresses, for often in summer she comes 
here and spends hours with her sewing and books. 

There is now a far away look in the brown eyes. The 
tender lines about the sweet mouth have deepened into a 
pathetic droop ; for she is thinking of her dream of the 
night before. Evidently she is in one of her laziest moods 
this morning, though it is Saturday, always the busiest of 
the six busy days at the cottage. 

But, with some natures there sometimes comes in 
moments of lonely reflection an hysterical impulse to relieve 
the heart, over charged with depression and misgivings, in 
a manner ludicrously adverse to their true feelings. So it 
is with her, for though really unconscious of it, she is sing- 
ing in a very sad voice some ridiculous lines. At the same 
time her hands are busy tossing one by one, some tiny peb- 
bles she has gathered in her lap, into the placid stream. 


PASSION PAST. 


15 


But suddenly she is siezed with a strange sensation 
which prompts her to look over her shoulder, although she 
has heard no footfall on the soft grass. Her instincts have 
served her true, for she springs to her feet, nearly overcome 
with fright at finding herself face to face with a stranger, 
and a very handsome one at that. 

She is too thoroughly a child to read the admiration in 
the grey eyes looking into her own, or to understand her 
own embarrassment, but in her confusion she drops the 
pebbles and flowers. 

“Shall I gather these up for you?” and suiting the action 
to the word, he puts the fl owners in her hand. 

“They grow so plentifully about here you need not mind 
these,” blushing painfully at the touch of his fingers. 

“But you should not be cruel to these little violets even 
amid all this extravagance,” he protests. 

“I am not, I love them too well — ■” she begins resentfully 
then looks bashfully down unable to say more. 

“As you say, nature is indeed prodigal in her pretty gifts 
to you,’ 1 he observes, hoping to put her at her ease by draw- 
ing her attention from himself. “Only see,” pointing up- 
ward, “how that wild honeysuckle and grape vine seem to 
have sprung spontaneously from mother earth and scorning 
all restraint, have clambered side by side to that tall elm 
and entertwined their slender vines around its branches. 
How beautiful it all is!” 

“And there's the dearest little nest with four of the 
tiniest darlings,” she exclaims childishly. 

“So there is,” he agrees, stepping upon a fallen log and 
peeping at the little family snugly housed in a fork of the 
tree. “They’re screetching like wild cats now they’ve seen 
me. The mother has left them; gone to mill no doubt. 
Shut up you yelling, starving brood, and take that — and 
that!” picking off the tree two plump worms and dropping 
them into two gaping mouths. 

And like two philosophers, the other two resign them- 
selves in anticipation of full stomachs on the impartial 
mother’s return. 


16 


PASSION PAST. 


The young man is repaid at hearing the merry ringing 
laugh, and says apologetically: 

“I must beg your pardon for my intrusion and for ad- 
dressing you so. May I show you this?” 

It is the first time the girl has ever held a similar bit of 
pasteboard in her fingers. 

“Aylor Walworth?” she questions shyly. 

“Yes, I am spending a week with a college friend — Phil 
Parkhurst, who lives near you.” 

“Yes, I have always heard of the family, although Idon’t 
know any of them. You came up behind me so suddenly 
you startled me,” now gathering courage from the frank 
voice and honest face. 

“Would you believe me were I to tell you I had been 
standing there fully five minutes?” 

“It was certainly unkind in you to watch me in that way 
and I not know it,” and there is both pain and scorn in her 
young voice. 

“Oh, but let me explain, will you not?" eager to appease 
her. “Phil, being a model host, permits his guests to fol- 
low unquestioned their own sweet will ; so the desire for a 
lonely ramble seized me this morning, and in passing here I 
was surprised to hear some one singing. Almost uncon- 
sciously I peered through the bushes and saw you sitting 
here alone.” 

And for one so unused to lying he congratulates himself 
that he is doing it beautifully and effectively, when he sees 
the pain and scorn melt away in a smile. 

“I hardly knew I was singing, for my thoughts were far 
away, but if my weak little voice afforded you any amuse- 
ment, I should feel glad I suppose,” she replies. 

There is an indescribable charm about the pretty little 
country girl near him in her blue cotton dress, and dainty 
white apron, the like of which this man of the world has 
never seen; an indescribable charm in the unmistakable signs 
of culture, self acquired he suspects, judging from her sur- 
roundings, and he resolves to know more of her. 

“Your voice is natural and sweet as of the birds above 


PASSION PAST. 


17 


you. But memory fails in trying to recall the words of the 
song.” 

“Oh, now I remember ; but don't tax your memory fur- 
ther, for they were never before heard by mortal ear.” 

“Ah ! you astonish me ! an improvisatrice that words 
such as those come with no effort?” 

“The gift is quite beyond me Mr. Walworth, but I’ll tell 
you. Being in a poetical mood one day I resolved to do 
something more for this unhappy pair of lovers for whom 
the author seems to have done so little. So with pencil and 
paper, I went to my little room up stairs one rainy after- 
noon. It took the whole afternoon for me to make every- 
thing satisfactory to myself, but I did it at last. In a third 
stanza, I constrained the broken hearted lover to confess to 
his lady love that, though regretting having loved her, but 
to lose her, “ ‘ ’twere better to have loved her in that way 
than never to have loved at all.’ ” 

She fails in her merry recklessness to see how grave his 
handsome face has suddenly become, but goes on : 

“But in the fourth he holds out a hope ‘that we may 
meet beyond the pearly gates, dear,’ then the fifth follows 
in which both are made inexpressibly happy by being per- 
mitted for the last time to clasp hands over their own 
graves thus — 

“In the gloaming, oh, my darling, 

May I clasp your hand again ? 

O’er our grave of buried hopes, dear, 

Sing my last, last sad refrain ? 

Then while looking in your eyes, love, 

As we stand here side by side, 

You may, dear, perhaps forgive me 
That for which I would have died.” 


Haying finished Glennie suddenly realizes how silly this 
may seem to this tall distinguished looking stranger, and a 
glance at his face sobers her. 

“How stupid of me! I see you don’t like my little ro- 
mance — the verses have disgusted you/’ 

“Hardly, the verses possessing, as they do, the charm of 
originality ; but the sentiment partakes too strongly of the 


18 


PASSION PAST. 


flavor of cynicism for one so young and — pardon me, so 
lovely and childlike.” 

“I’ll show him that I’m not the idiot he thinks,” she said 
to herself, while blushing under the first compliment she 
had ever received, for no one had ever told her she was 
pretty before, and the sensation that is so new to her, she 
is not certain whether it is one of resentment or satisfac- 
tion, or a commingling of both. 

“You seem to me such a strange anomaly that I hardly 
'know what to make of you,” he went on*at last. 


CHAPTER III 


“Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and 
digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not 
curiously; and some few to be read wholly and with diligence and attention.”— Bacon. 

“Why do you say that?” she demands, turning away her 
eyes while her face flushes. 

“Your appearance leads one to look upon you as a child; 
your manner of dealing with those unfortunate lovers is 
that of a woman of mature age and thoughts.” 

“I am sixteen, but, as for lovers I know nothing of them.” 
she retorts loftily. 

“I breathe again !” 

“But,” she continues, ignoring the ejaculation, “I’ve read 
of dozens and dozens.” 

A rather patronizing laugh, which irritates her, meets 
this astounding revelation ; so she resolves in her own mind 
to surprise him, and when he says : 

“May I ask to what authors you are indebted for your 
knowledge of a question that is yet somewhat obscure?” 
she answers with an impressiveness ridiculous in one so 
youthful : 

“Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, Elliott, Bulwer,” counting 
off five pretty fingers, “and, besides, I’m finishing up a 
course in the Chautauquan studies.” 

“What a female Solomon you will be, if at the age of 
seventy this insatiable appetite for unwholesome fiction will 
have become in some degree appeased,” he says sarcastic- 
ally. 

“I suppose it was my unusually lonely life that led to such 


20 


PASSION PAST. 


an indiscrimnate course of reading,” she answers patheti- 
cally. “Then really, it is not so astonishing after all, the 
amount one can go through in a few years, and since the 
age of twelve I have read everything that came in my way.” 

“From Ouida to Bulwer — ” he interposes. 

“I feel a strong repugnance to Ouida. I tried one of her 
books.” She returns simply, “I dont like her.” 

For a moment he studies the sweet tell tale face, and a 
great wave of pity sweeps over him. That she is commit- 
ting a flagrant act in thus holding converse with a stranger 
she hasn’t the remotest idea, so, where one is so wholly igno- 
rant of all wrong doing, no harm can there be in thus 
whiling away an hour. And he thinks, he has in this way 
quieted any inward misgivings. Besides he already knows 
so much of her life. 

“After such a wide range, I suppose your ideas of love 
and marriage have become fixed?’ 

A flush covers cheek and brow, but she is silent. 

“You do not answer. Have they?” he persists. 

“Do not answer,” she repeats. “How can one have ideas 
of a thing one knows nothing about — that is outside of 
books — for really Mr. Walworth, I don’t believe there’s any 
lovers in the whole State of New Hampshire. I’m sure I 
never saw any.” 

For the first time in her life she is brought face to face 
with this astounding fact that, for some reason the young 
man is glad to hear her utter. 

“Lovers !” she continues, looking rather vaguely into the 
handsome face above her. “In books I think they do the 
most ridiculous things, don’t they? swear to be true to each 
other as long as they live, then give each other up for the 
silliest things. I wonder how it would feel to be that way 
for true?” 

“Surely young people around you marry as they do in 
books, don’t they?” 

“Oh, yes, sometimes ; but then they don’t count, for 
they’re so different. What an idea !” 


PASSION PAST. 


21 


“Of course,” he assents, “altogether different from you 
and me.” 

“Glennie — Glennie Thornton !” 

“If there isn’t auntie ! It is noon as I live !” glancing up 
at the sun ; then darting across the road she starts up the 
path, the young man at her heels. 

“Your auntie? Have you no mother then?” 

“No, and you must go back or she will see you, and she 
will he so angry. Don’t come, Mr. Walworth, please.” 

“But I must know. That woman will not dare to touch 
you?'’ he says, as he sees a tall angular female standing on 
the porch in front of a whitewashed cottage. Her eyes, 
shaded by a coarse red hand, are fixed upon himself. 

“Touch me? No ! I’m not afraid of her, only she scolds 
me for every little thing I do, and it’s not a little thing to- 
day,” she pauses long enough to say. 

“But I must see you again. When can I, and where?” 
he pleads, feeling he cannot let her go without this assur- 
ance. 

“See me? Why, Mr. Walworth, why should you wish to 
see me again? Good bye !” and with this very unsatisfac- 
tory answer floating back to him, the trim little figure goes 
bounding up the path. He looks after her until she passes 
through the door, closely followed by the shrill voiced 
woman she calls aunt. 

“I am afraid I’m done for,” he tells himself, turning and 
retracing his steps down the path. Once more in the road 
he hurries on toward Parkhurst. 

“Yes, I’m hit, and by a little mite like that! Can it be 
destiny, old boy? 

That old miracle— Love at first sight — 

Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright 
Its destiny sometimes. 

What a very child of nature she is ! Unconscious and 
unaffected ! But enough ! Come, Aylor Walworth ! pull 
yourself together, or you’ll miss your dinner, thereby draw- 
ing Phil’s wrath down on your head. “Hello, Phil ! Have 
you lost anything?” this to a tall young man, who suddenly 


22 


PASSION PAST. 


steps into the road before him, and looks anxiously up and 
down. 

“Yes, I have lost you. The women folk fear some wild 
beast has carried you off. Come along to dinner.” 

“I’ll tell you, Phil, what I’ve been doing. I’ve been 
watching the nymphs dancing in the woods. Why didn’t 
you tell me you have such neighbors?” 

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you are driving at. What’s 
the matter with you anyway?” 

“I hardly know myself.” 

“I don’t think you do, old boy, and the very best thing 
you can do is to trudge along home to dinner.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


Never in all her life had Glennie feared the vixenish wo- 
man she called aunt ; but despite her effort to meet her 
bravely, she quaked with an inward fear, impossible to de- 
fine, when she encountered the terrible fury in the light 
eyes. 

“Now, ye lazy little beggar I want to know whar ye’ve bin 
all day,” was the greeting. 

Yes, the girl’s spirit had evidently weakened, for she 
made no answer as she tried to pass her, which but added to 
the woman’s anger seven fold, if such were possible. 

“Not much, miss, do ye, tel ye tell me what I ast ye. Here 
ye promised to come right back an’ help with the Saturday’s 
work ef I’d let ye go a little ways with your uncle, an’ it’s 
noon, and ye hevn’t turned yer hand over to-day ! Ye don’t 
airn the salt that goes in yer mush ! I ast ye agin whar 
ye’ve bin?” 

“I’ll tell you auntie if you -won’t scold,” she answered, 
with quivering lips. “I went to the station with uncle, and 
when I came back I was tired and sat down by the water to 
rest. I forgot all about the work. I’m always forgetting, 
oh dear ! oh dear ! ’ 

“Forgittin’, fiddlesticks! yer always thinkin’ uv everything 
but what ye’d orter. Never ye mind though, I’m thinkin’ 
ye’ll hev to stir yer stumps a little faster when ye hev to go 
from door to door and beg for a bite to keep ye from 
starvin’, he ! he ! 

Of course the girl thought these were but the idle words 


24 


PASSION PAST. 


of an angry woman, yet a strange indefinable feeling thrilled 
her soul. 

“Auntie, what do you mean by calling me a beggar? You 
know I’m not, with this nice home and plenty of good 
clothes. Just fancy my begging from door to door with this 
pretty dress, and slippers with the bows of ribbon. I’d 
have to give up the bows, wouldn’t I?” and a merry peal of 
laughter rang out at the ludicrous picture. 

Just for a moment Rachael regarded the pretty dimpled 
face, then her long pent-up anger found an outlet in such 
a torrent of vituperation that the merriment gave place to 
consternation that almost congealed her blood as the woman 
finished with the enigmatical declaration : 

“I mean jist what I say — that ye’ve not got a drop uv our 
honest blood runnin’ through yer beggarly body ; not the 
least shadder of a claim on us ; an’ ye’ve bin nuthin but a 
worry an’ expense to Hiram an’ me for these thirteen year. 
Here we’ve fed ye, an’ we’ve clothed ye, an’ what thanks 
hev we to show for it? On top o’ that ye must go trapsin’ 
roun’ the kentry all day with some wolf in sheep’s close 
thet’s seekin’ who he may devour ! Can’t ye speak, or hes 
shame made ye dum’ for the first time in yer life?” The 
voice at the last rising to a shrill screech. 

For an answer the girl threw up her hands to hide her 
horrified face. But the frenzied woman took the move- 
ment for one of defiance, and springing forward before the 
other could divine her intention, she felt a stinging blow in 
her face. 

“Now, then, mebbe thet’ll loosen up yer tongue for ye !” 

“I never saw him until an hour ago,” she answered in a 
hoarse whisper ; “but, oh, auntie, auntie, tell me what you 
meant a moment ago. If I’m not your and uncle’s niece, 
who and what am I?” 

“Who an’ what am I?” mimicked the woman. “I’ll tell 
ye in a jiffy what ye air. Why, ypr a nobody. Some good 
for nuthin’ hussy left ye standin’ bawlin’ on our doorstep 
one night jist thirteen year ago.” 

“And only this morning uncle told me all about papa and 


PASSION PAST. 25 

mamma, his brother Jim and his wife. Oh, uncle, uncle ! 
Why have you done this cruel thing?” she wailed. 

A burst of derisive laughter, as the other said mockingly : 

“Yer pappy an’ mammy ! Brother Jim an’ his wife ! Oh, 
dear ! Ye little fool, don’t ye know Hiram Thornton has 
been lyin’ to yer all these year? Pappy and mammy! Raly 
I do think I’ll die ! he ! he ! he ! Oh, yes, yer own mammy 
left sumthin for ye, an’ don't ye forgit ! — a kind o’ keep- 
sake for yer to remember her by.” 

And going to the bureau she jerked out a drawer from 
which she took out an old leather pocket-book, one the girl 
had often seen. An instant later a paper, yellow with age 
was thrown at her feet. 

•‘There, drat ye, take it ! It’s yer mammy’s last will an’ 
testament. I’ve hoarded it up all these years for jist sich a 
day es this.” 

And mechanically the poor girl obeyed. 

“Yes, take the precious thing yer vile mother left ye! 
take it to yer room an’ stay there tel ye tell me every word 
that feller said to ye ; for ef I don’t pluck ye from the ever- 
lastin burnin’ right now ye’ll soon be worse'n yer mother 
was afore ye. Mammy , an’ pappy! Oh my !” 

“Oh you hard cruel woman !” cried the tortured girl find- 
ing her voice at last, “you’ve always hated me though I 
never knew the reason. Still, I don’t know the meaning of 
those words you apply to my poor mother.” 

“Well, well ! I s'pose any body es smart es ye be'd know 
a simple thing like that. Ef ye was’nt sich a fool ye’d git it 
from the letter she writ — or go to the books yer always 
porin’ over. Ef they can’t tell ye, ye’d better ast yer friend 
Miss Kinne.” 

“This, the woman brought? the woman of whom uncle 
told me this morning?’’ 

“ ‘Twas pinned to the tail of your frock.” 

“But he told me it had been destroyed, that you had 
burnt it. Oh, uncle, uncle !” What have you done to me?” 

“I wasn't sich a fool es thet. I saved it up for sich a day 


26 


PASSION PAST. 


uv reckonin’ thet I knowed would come sooner or later,” 
the vixen sneered. 

“Poor mamma !” and without another word the girl turned 
and blindly groped her way up stairs to her attic room. 
Throwing herself in a rocker by the one window, she open- 
ed the paper with shaking fingers and read : 

“Take this little unfortunate waif in the place of the child 
you have lost. Having no father she comes to you name- 
less, asking that you may give her your own honest one ; 
and hoping she may become a better woman than her erring 
mother.” 

Just that and nothing more, to tell the miserable girl from 
whence she came. The writing was decidedly good, that of 
a lady evidently. For a time she sat there too nearly over- 
whelmed with the horror of it all to move ; then her eyes 
falling upon a row of books on a shelf fastened to the wall, 
she arose and crossed over to them. Here were her treas- 
ures of which she had that day boasted with childish pride. 

Taking from among them a dictionary, she searched with 
feverish haste until she found the meaning of the vile epi- 
thets hurled at her unknown mother by the woman down 
stairs. She was too ignorant and childlike to take it all in 
at once, in its fullest signification, and again she sank into 
the chair to think it all out. 

But at last it came to her in all its hideousness, and she 
fell on the floor with her face downwards. 

What was this ghastly spectre confronting her? Oh, the 
weird horror of it all ! Herself the offspring of an illicit 
love — a thing too vile to possess even a name ! She, who 
since her earliest recollection, had lived as free and happy 
as the birds of the air, now, without a note of warning, 
stripped of all the bright gayety and joyousness of girl- 
hood — the dreams and hopes of dawning womanhood, all 
dragged in the dust by this woman’s ruthless hand ! 

“But I cannot, will not believe it,” she moaned, writhing 
in her misery. “Every instinct of my soul cries out against 
this base, ignoble thing; but, oh, could I have but died! 
Could I have but died before hearing it !” 


PASSION PAST. 


27 


“The beautiful golden haired vision that conies to me in 
my dreams, the horrid thing that woman says?” She again 
cried out: “No ! a thousand times no ! But, oh, my mother, 
why did you leave me alone to bear this wretchedness, worse 
than death ?” 

The inexorable and unchangeable laws of the Medes and 
Persians were hardly more rigid than Rachael Thornton’s 
household rules ; so in the usual order of things, six o’clock 
came and with it the bountifully spread supper table, yet her 
husband had not returned from Raymond. She had even 
gone down the path to the road, hoping to be rewarded by 
a glimpse of the familiar form ; still he did not come, and 
she returned to her knitting. 

The unmistable evidences shone about her of the usual 
weekly application of soap and sand. The bread and pastry 
looked very tempting on the milk house shelf. Even the 
pigs and chickens were squealing and cackling over their 
evening meal. Never in her life had the same amount of 
work seemed to take up so little time as on this long after- 
noon, and there was nothing left for her but Hiram’s half 
finished sock, which afforded very meager comfort. 

“Oh drat it all ! mebbe I was a little too hard on the gal,” 
she muttered to herself at last, “an’ Hiram ”11 be jist es 
mad es a March hare ef he hears uv it, he sets sich store by 
the aggervatin’ thing. I kin never forgit though, how my 
heart all kindy froze the day my baby died. Is it any wun- 
der I could’nt take to this’n thet come in ’er place? Drat 
take the kmtten ! I wish’e’d come to ’is supper. I guess 
I’ll jist slip up ’an ast ’er to come an’ git ’er supper. Meb- 
be I kin get ’er in a good humor afore ’e comes.” 

She opened the door of the tiny room and saw the girl in 
the low rocker, her face hidden on the window sill. 

“Oh, Glennie!” her voice was slightly tremulous. 

“Glennie, I say!” as no answer came save a little shrinking 
of the girlish form. 

“Humph! spunky yit, air ye 2 Yer stummick must be 
kindy em’ty by this time an’ I guess you’d better come an’ 
git yer supper; it’s waitin’.” 


28 


PASSION PAST. 


“I could not eat anything, 7 ’ came in a whisper. 

“Oh, yes ye kin,” she said kindly, glad to have gained this 
much. “Come along, afore yer uncle gits here/’ 

“Am I made of wood or stone, Mrs. Thornton, that I can 
sit at your table after all that has passed ?” 

“Mis’ Thornton, is it? Oh, well then! but Pm thinkin’ 
many’s the time ye’ll want to set at it, Mis’ — whatever’s yer 
name,” she snapped. At the door she paused to say: 

“The less said about the feller with ye to-day the better. 
There! I see him cornin’ through the winder now, so ye’d 
better come, or he’ll be astin’ about ye.” 

Receiving no reply to this last overture, she went out, 
slamming the door behind her. 

“Hiram Thornton, whatever under the canopy skies kept 
ye so?” was her cheery greeting from the door-step a moment 
later. 

“I’ve hed a heap o’ bother to-day, one thing’n another. 
Got a late start, then I hed to wait et Scott’s, he’d so much 
work ahead, an’ after all 1 didn’t git but one boot half -soled, 
but he said he’d do tother’n next time.” 

“That needn’t a tuk ye all day jist to get a boot half- 
soled,” she grumbled. 

“Well, no,” he admitted; “but jist es I come along by 
Smith’s that wheel come off ’n the wagon, an’ ’though I was 
mighty glad it come off jist when it did, it took quite a little 
spell to tix it.” 

“'Well be brisk now ye hev come. I’ve kep supper waitin’ 
tel ye come, an’ I’m es hungry es a bar.” She called after 
him as he led the two horses stableward. 

“How d’ye like the apurns I brung ye Rachael?” came in 
the patient good natured drawl as he took the cup of coffee 
from his wife’s hands a few moments later. “It’s the big- 
gest check I c’d git knowin’ y’ druther hev it thon the little 
figgers thet Kydd said was all the go now fur apurns.” 

“I’m not a born fool yit to wear sich new f angles, an’ this 
’s rale purty Hiram — .” 

“Rachael, whars Glennie thet she don’t come to ’er sup- 


PASSION PAST. 


29 


per?” It had come at last, and she replied in a rather shaky 
voice. 

“Glennie? well I’d forgot ’er. She wasn’t feelin’ very 
peart an' hes laid down. I see ye got ’er book an’ now I’ll 
not git a han’s turn out’n ’er far a hull week, though, arter all 
I’m glad ye got it.” “The Last Days of Pompey” she read 
with difficulty. “Now I wonder who he was. I never hurd 
no any but niggers by thet name. Some scamp in sheep’s 
close I guess. Goodness Hiram! that’s three cups.” 

“It kindy braces a feller up after a hull day in town,” 
he answered apologetically. “Rachael, what d’ye think kin’ 
ail Glennie? She wasn’t lookin’ very peart this mornin’ — 
all out o’ sperits like an’ cryin’.” 

“Cryin’ Hiram? What kin’ uv added ’er thet she was 
cryin’? she’s most al’ers gigglin’ an’ singin’” concluding, 
though wisely to herself: “I’ll bet anything it was some 
deviltry about the feller with ’er to-day — .” 

“Rachael.” 

“What d’ye want?” came so ungraciously that the other 
still hesitated until spurred up by a wifely jibe — . 

“Air ye deef ?” 

“I don’t want ’o make ye mad Rachael. I know es fur es 
close an’ feedin’ goes ye’ve al’us bin a mother to ’er, still I’ve 
bin thinkin’ all day uv ’er an’ thought I’d ast ye ef ye 
wouldn’t try to be a little kinder to the poor little thing — jest 
a word now an’ then to show ye didn’t mean it. Uv course,” 
he hastened to add, seeing the angular form straighten in the 
chair, “when she was little it didn’t make no difference fur 
she couldn’t understand, but now she’s growed” — 

“Don’t be a fool Hiram! To hear ye a body’d think I 
wanted to kill ’er.” 

The man gave a sigh, knowing how useless such appeals 
must always be. He arose, saying: 

“Uv course, Rachael, I didn’t s’pose it’d do any good, 
still I thought— I guess I’ll go up stars an’ see ef she’s 
asleep. ” 

“No Hiram,” she protested, “I wouldn’t go about ’er 


30 


PASSION PAST. 


to-night with yer pettin’ an 1 fussin’. A good night’s sleep’ll 
do ’er fur more good.” 

“I promise ye not to wake ’er ef she’s asleep,” he rejoined, 
shambling off. The wife looked after her disobedient spouse, 
but said no more. 

The shades of twilight had deepened into night and still 
Glennie sat by the window trying in her mind to form some 
plan of action. 

“God says: ‘Ask and ye shall receive,’ and I never thought 
of Him ’til this moment;” she whispered, a ray of hope for 
the first time crossing her tear stained face. “Here I’ve 
been trying to think of some one who might help me and to 
whom I might tell everything. Oh God!” she said, rever- 
ently falling upon her knees and looking out into the star lit 
heavens, “pity me and put it into mamma’s heart to come to 
me who needs her so. Throw light upon the way I must 
take that I may find her. Do this for Christ’s sake.” 

A moment passed in silence as if to give the recording 
angel time to register the child’s petition; then she was 
startled into action by hearing a step outside the door; and 
sank down, knowing it to be her uncle. She dare not see 
him. She must never see poor old uncle Hiram again. 

“Glennie, be ye asleep?” came in a low voice. 

Pressing her hands tightly over her mouth, she waited; but 
she heard him move away muttering: 

“I guess the poor little thing is asleep.” Then he slowly 
descended the stairs and everything was quiet. 

“I must do something at once for 1 cannot see him again.” 
Springing to her feet — “Poor uncle! he has always loved me 
through it all, but 1 must go. Ah yes, to Raymond tonight, 
then try to get some kind of work. She has taught me that, 
at least.” 

Her hands were not idle as she talked, for she bathed her 
tear-stained face and brushed her brown hair, after which 
she exchanged the gingham dress for a darker one. 

Then for a moment she stood with her hands clasped 
tightly about her still aching head, as if to concentrate her 
wandering thoughts upon the step she was about to take. 


PASSION PAST. 


31 


Just then the clock struck ten, telling her she had no time 
to waste, for the train running west would be due at twelve 
at Parkhurst station which was a mile away. 

Hurriedly gathering up a few articles of clothing, includ- 
ing the pretty unmade dress, she put them into a small leather 
satchel and slung it across her shoulder. Looking into her 
purse she found six dollars and a half — surely not a great 
deal between herself and the untried future; but youth is full 
of hope after all and she did not falter. 

“Have I everything I can take, I wonder,” she mused. 

4 4 Ah no !’ 7 Kneeling down by her bureau she opened a drawer 
and took out a little box. “To think I came so near forget- 
ting all the clue I have,” she said, as she held in her hand a 
tiny ring of gold, such as one often sees on the chubby finger 
of a child. With a great hope springing up in her heart she 
read the name engraved inside the little circle. 

44 Coralie!” How it thrilled her very soul as it never had 
done before. She had often read the name unconscious of any 
hidden meaning, but she now realized it might prove to be a 
clue to that for which she was about to seek. 

44 My name is Coralie and not Glennie. Not knowing my 
name they called me by that of their own child,” she thought. 

She remembered, dimly, the time when the little band had 
become too small for the fat baby finger and her aunt had 
taken it off, putting it in the box with a few trinkets. As 
she sat there almost unconsciously turning the band around 
in her hands, memories of the baby days, almost forgotten, 
came crowding up, that, in spite of their vagueness, seemed 
gradually to roll back a great curtain which had hung between 
herself and the past. 

What a fairy-like scene was revealed! A graceful form, a 
pretty head with its golden crown, a sweet face bending over 
her own crib, a soft lullaby floating back to her across the 
waste of years. Kind Father in Heaven what did it all mean ? 

Again the panorama was changed, showing the form of a 
man, tall and handsome, upon whose shoulders were perched 
herself — and another — their baby hands clasped around his 


32 


PASSION TAST. 


neck to keep them from falling as he cantered about the room 
playing u horsey” and laughing at their childish glee. 

The picture aroused the wondering girl. 

“Surely, ’tis no fantasy— a fanciful chimera of the brain, 
for I can plainly see the difference between the pretty appoint- 
ments of that room and this plain country home. It will fade 
away! It can mean nothing real.” She tried to assure her- 
self. “Yet, why do all these thoughts come? Why do I 
dream of this same golden-haired lady ?” 

Hark! the clock was striking again, and she must be gone; 
so, casting a loving glance over the little room that for years 
had been her kingdom, she hastily descended the steps into 
the little “siftin’ room” with its rag carpet and uncomfortable 
rocker draped in a cotton tidy of Rachael’s own make. Here 
her eyes lingered for a moment upon the many objects made 
dear and precious above all price through daily association. 
But danger lurked beyond the half-open door of her uncle’s 
bed room, and, fearing to breathe, she glided through the 
front door. 

Now she was safe for the present, for he made no sign and 
she felt the pure night air in her face. 

Poor, motherless one! nameless outcast! 

“How can I leave this dear old home, after all? I am 
mad to think of it; but no, no! I must not pause or I shall 
lose what little courage I have. ” She hurried down the path 
until she gained the road, when her eyes fell upon the seat 
under the trees, and, suddenly, a thought of Aylor Hashed 
into her mind for the first time. 

Her limbs refused to carry her any further. An awful 
weakness seized her with the apprehension of what he might 
think if he knew all, and throwing herself upon the stone, 
she hastily reviewed the events of the day. 

“I can look with nothing but dread into the future, feeling, 
as I do, that every one must know of this leprous taint upon 
my birth,” she sadly told herself, rising at last and going on. 

At the best, in spite of her hopes of an hour ago, to-night 
must be the beginning of her being set apart, avoided by the 
good, jeered at by the bad, for being the offspring of man’s 
passion and woman’s — weakness. 


CHAPTER V. 


I’ll shape myself a way to higher things : 

And who will say ’tis wrong? 

•‘What is a man, 

If his chief good and market of his time 
Be hut to sleep ana feed ? a beast, no more.” 

With an impatient sigh the quotation fell from the lips of 
beautiful Clare Fontaine as she sat looking across to the dis- 
tant hills, one moonlight night probably twenty years prev- 
ious to the events already related. 

4 ‘To sleep and feed! to work and think! an advantage over 
the beast after all. The luxuries of working and thinking! 
Why am I so unreasonable as to wish for more?” 

There seem to be people in the world living on in the even 
tenor of their way whose lives seem stript and bare, dragging 
out an existence bereft of romance, or bit of green, or sugges- 
tion of poetry, and, from Clare Fontaine’s standpoint, she 
belonged to this category together with her widowed mother. 

Oak Cottage had always been the home of both, having been 
bequeathed to the girl by her grandfather’s will, so here her 
whole monotonous life of seventeen years had been passed and 
as she sat at her chamber- window that night, bitter rebellious 
thoughts filled her heart. 

At one time her grandfather’s boundary had enclosed a 
large plantation, but acre after acre had been sold, the pro- 
ceeds of which went to maintain in some degree, the old man- 
ner of living so necessary to the very existence of the aristo- 
cratic old Colonel. 

Now nothing remained of it all, save the cottage, an old 
negro and an acre or two of ground 


34 


PASSION PAST. 


Colonel Camden’s early training having illy fitted him for 
bearing so many reverses, he soon succumbed to the trials and 
diprivations they entailed; then, in a short time the mother 
was laid beside him, and Alice was left to fight unaided the 
battles they lacked the courage to face. 

But the brave little daughter seemed imbued with a differ- 
ent spirit, for she applied herself so diligently to her studies 
that after two or three years she opened a select school in her 
native town, Hollidale. 

There she remained until her marriage, living out her pure 
sweet girlhood, satisfied and happy. 

Though Hugo has said: 4 Tt is a terrible thing to be happy, 
as the possessor of happiness is apt to forget the true object 
of life — duty. ” Alice Camden neither found the one terrible 
nor forgot the other. 

Duty! such a stern, uncomprising master it seems to some 
after all! How difficult for some natures to bind themselves 
to its inexorable decrees! 

It was thus with the one we have made the subject of this 
chapter — our beautiful passionate Clare, who, in leaving her 
innocent girlhood behind her to enter upon a new untried 
existence that seemed so unsatisfying, who was unable to see 
duty as pointed out by Kemble in the lines— 

A sacred burden, is this life ye bear, 

Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, 

Stancfup and walk beneath it steadfastly, 

Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, 

But onward, upward, till tbe goal ye win. 

The town clock in the distant tower began to strike the 
hour of eleven; then when it ceased all was again still save 
the occasional hooting of a night owl and the croaking of the 
frogs. 

Hollidale was situate in a valley in West Virginia, a valley 
noted for its beautiful scenery. Though her conceptions 
were naturally keen, the scenery spread out before her touched 
no poetic chord in the soul of this silent watcher. But the 
silence and inaction at last became unbearable, and obeying a 
sudden impulse, she sprang to her feet and crossed over to 
her dressing bureau. Turning on the light that had been 


PASSION PAST. 


35 


dimly burning, she surveyed herself critically in the mirror 
for a moment. 

“Beautiful — and proud!” she muttered rebelliously, “yet, 
what will it ever gain for me in this pokey little place? not 
even one true friend. Proud! yet too poor to own one decent 
dress. ” 

Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers; 

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside. 

The material of the dress she wore was a cream serge, yet 
the combination with touches of scarlet, further enhanced her 
brunette beauty. 

“How has poor mother borne it all?” she went on; “or has 
she at last grown patient under the very hopelessness of it 
ail? I wonder if I’ll ever get the look on my face that she 
has, when my youth is gone and my hair is white. ?” 

And with a little sigh over her wasted charms she turned 
down the light, the sickly rays of which seemed to throw a 
spectral shadow^ over the dark furniture making it look unu- 
sually weird and uncanny. 

“Of course, I ought to be in bed. Mamma and John are 
asleep hours ago. But if I were to go to bed I should lie 
awake all night, perhaps — or if I could go to sleep I’m sure 
I’d have the nightmare. Ill sit up a little while longer, any- 
way. ” 

And she again sank back into the low rocker, and once 
more leaned out to drink in the cool air. 

“What has come over me to-night? I feel stilled by a pre- 
monition of something about to happen. It is said that com- 
ing events cast their shadows before. Can it be that an event 
is coming and its shadow is even now enveloping me? Ah, 
well!” with a slight shiver, “let 'it come! I think after all I 
could welcome any event that would change the current of 
my life; so again, I say, let it come!” 

She flung out her arms beyond the window sill as if court- 
ing the approach of the uncanny spirits hovering near her. 

With the abrupt outward motion of her hands, her eyes 
became suddenly fixed, and every mental faculty paralyzed 
with horror, for scarcely two hundred yards away she saw 


36 


PASSION PAST. 


two forms. Both were men, the foremost one walking lei- 
surely along as if enjoying a moonlight walk, the other 
stealthy following his unconscious victim, for her every in- 
stinct told the girl he was a victim in deadly peril of the 
assassin’s weapon. 

She could give no warning cry 'ere she heard a shot and 
saw the man reel and fall. In her excitement she waved her ' 
arms and the motion seemed to draw the eyes of the assail- 
ant to herself, and for the first time he seemed to realize that 
all had been seen. 

Standing in the shadow of the great oak it was impossible 
for her to see his features, though her own stood out in bold 
relief in the bright moonlight. 

“The man is dressed in grey which tells me nothing, as one 
sees a dozen men in grey every day. He has the appearance 
of a gentleman in spite of this dreadful deed,” she told her- 
self. “Ah, he is gone! Can I allow this and make no sign? 
Yet I must not scream and frighten mamma to death.” she 
thought, as she strained her eyes after the receding figure. 
At last a thought of the fallen man drew her eyes back, as 
the form of the other was enveloped in the shadows of night, 
and she rushed across the hall to her mother’s room. 

Clare was too thoroughly frightened and excited to heed 
the look of quiet peace on the sweet face of her mother, but 
clutching wildly at her arm, cried: 

“Mamma, oh, mamma! a foul murder has been done under 
the tree at the gate. Do come at once, won’t you, mamma?” 

“My darling, what has happened? I have had such a 
frightful dream — ” 

“Will you come, mamma? will you? It was no dream,” 
but a fearful reality,” her voice dying away in a pitiful sob 
that aroused the mother at once. 

“Yes, I’m coming at once, dear. What did you say hap- 
pened at the gate? We must have John.” 

And in a moment both were hastily making their way to 
the scene of the night’s tragedy. 

“Shuah, Miss Alice, de judgemen' day am cornin’ fo’ I’se 


PASSION PAST. 


37 


done heah de hohn a bio win',’’ blubbered the terrified negro, 
with chattering teeth. 

His terror being in some degree dispelled by the assur- 
ance that the heavens and earth still retained their respective 
places in their respective orbits, the three in another moment 
stood beside the stranger. 

“I’se shuah, Miss Atice, some dem poah white niggahs 
done done dis ting.” 

“Hush, John! he may hear you,” cautioned his mistress in 
an undertone, as she knelt down and laid her hand upon the 
man’s heart. 

“We must have the doctor at once, but John, you may 
carry him to the house. Take him carefully, John." 

“I can help you John,” said Clare eagerly. 

“Law Miss Clare!” with the freedom of a privileged ser- 
vant, “fo’ a teenty ting like you to holp tote de likes ob he, 
git ’long out’n de way, heah;” and lifting the man in his 
strong arms he bore him to the house. 

“Now John tell the doctor to come at once,” his mistress 
ordered after he had been placed on the bed in the spare 
room, and the servant hastened to obey. 

“And John, keep a still tongue, mind you, if you should 
see any one,” supplemented the girl, who had followed with 
the gentleman’s hat. In stooping to pick it up, she had 
obserbed a small glittering object near it which she mechan- 
ically put into her pocket, in a moment, forgetting she had 
done so. 

The young man began to show signs of returning conscious- 
ness and the mother bent over him. 

“You had better leave him to me till the doctor comes, 
dear,” seeing now white her daughter looked. 

And Clare slipped outside the door as the physician ap- 
peared, thankful to be alone to think — think. 

“Surely, coming events cast their shadows before,” 
thought she as she walked restlessly up and down the hall, 
pausing at each turn to look into the room. At last she said, 
after watching the face for a moment: 

“I feel that the turning point in my life has been made 


38 


PASSION PAST. 


to-night, and that my destiny will, in someway, be influenced 
by the man lying there.” 

“What has happened to me? Where am I? Why, I can 
not move.” She heard him say in the first moment of 
awakening, and standing still for an instant, she saw a pair of 
dark eyes gazing up into the doctor’s face in a questioning, 
bewildered way. 

“Why of course you can’t move, and if you don’t stop try- 
ing, it ’ll be a long time before you do; so now be reasonable 
young man.” 

“Reasonable the devil! you show rare discernment of human 
nature if you think I am going to lie here like a log and not 
know what ails me.” 

“Why bless my soul man! I can’t tell you until I see my- 
self. I don’t think it’s much by the spirit you show. 
Humph! a little scratch and a little blood letting that’s all; 
but, it will keep you indoors all right for a few days,” was 
the cheery reply: 

“Blood letting doctor?” 

“Yes, yes, it’s necessary to let out a little bad blood 
occasionally to make place for better you know. ” 

“Ah!” in a tone that told the man was coming to himself, 
and that memory was returning. 

“Yes, a tramp no doubt bent on relieving you of your 
pocket-book. The valley is over run with them.” 

“Some one attempted to kill me. It is coming back to me,” 
excitement giving strength to his voice. 

“And failed we are happy to say,” assured the doctor 
cheerfully. 

“But who could it have been? it was no tramp I am sure.” 

“It must have been, though our little town is orderly as a 
rule; or you may have unguardedly made a display of valu- 
ables. ” 

“I never carry them when traveling. Though X cannot 
remember when or where, a momentary glimpse I caught of 
the fellow, makes me think I have seen him before.” 

“It may return to you. One of the strange anomalies of 


PASSION PAST. 


39 


the mind seems to be this of being almost ready at times to 
grasp an object that has escaped it.” 

4 'Time may clear up this mystery as it has many others,” 
he answered with a groan, for all this time the doctor was 
feeling and probing for the ball. 

“Humph! fortunately for you the fellow was scared or was 
a bungler. See that!” holding a bullet up to view. “He 
evidently came up at your left side to aim at your heart, but 
shot wide of the mark, though he succeeded in clipping an 
artery a little. Now, I want you to lie perfectly still or a 
hemorrhage may ensue. But I have not heard your name, 
young man. ” 

“Horace Woodland, of Richmond, tobacco dealer. It was 
in the interest of my business I came here to-day, intending 
to go on to New York immediately. Having to wait a few 
hours for a train, I thought to get through with them more 
quickly by walking about. Passing along this street, strange 
like the others, my attention was arrested by the sound of a 
stealthy footstep. Before 1 was able to fully grasp the situ- 
ation and consider a plan of defence, he was upon me.” 

“Humph! Well you are safe now. I’m going to make you 
go to sleep.” 

“But doctor, how long am I to be kept here?” he demanded 
peevishly, after obediently swallowing a sedative. 

“The more reasonable you are the sooner you will leave, 
I can tell you sir.” 

“But I must be in New York by the lirst of the month,” 
he protested still. 

“Good night, Mr. Woodland.” 

“But say, doctor” — 

The other paused in the doorway to shake a warning finger 
at him. 

“Didn’t I see a young lady leave the room as I regained 
consciousness?” he asked. 

‘ T shall not tell you. Good night.” 

After he had sunk off into a quiet slumber Clare stole into 
the room again and stood beside the bed. 

“How handsome! and not more than twenty-three or four” 


40 


PASSION PAST. 


she thought, noting the broad white forehead upon which the 
soft brown hair had fallen. Some petted boy of a fond 
mother and decidedly a gentleman as well. 

A valuable seal ring shone on the hand lying on the snowy 
cover, Prom beside it she picked up a dainty linen handker- 
chief and read the name “Horace” embroidered in one corner. 

“Clare, my poor child,” said her mother tenderly as the 
girl turned away “this has been too much for you and you 
had better go now and try to get some rest” — 

“And you, mamma? You look as tired as I, I'm sure, so 
let me stay up with you, for of course he cannot be left 
alone. ” 

“Oh, certainly not, I must watch the bandages that they 
don’t become loosened. No, no, dear, go and take your rest, 
John is within call, and he will be sufficient.” 

“Are you never going to think of yourself, mamma ? May 
I not stay?” But the mother pushed her toward the door, 
saying, “you may have to help yet, but not to-night. Good 
night.” 

“Mamma,” the girl said with a tenderness unusual to her, 
“why do you try to make me selfish? Had you given more 
thought to yourself and less to me, I would have been a bet- 
ter girl perhaps.” 

“Possibly, I have erred at times, dear child, but remember 
you are all I have.” The other rejoined, while a little thrill 
of pleasure at this new phase in the nature of her daughter, 
stirred her heart. 

“And. remember, mamma, I have none but you,” bending 
to kiss the tiny little woman. 

“And I have felt that somehow she was growing away from 
me,” mused the latter turning again to the bed after the girl 
was gone. “I think I could bear anything more easily than 
have my child separate herself from me. ” 

Instead of going to bed Clare took her old seat by the win- 
dow, and for a time she tried to analyze the new emotions 
filling her whole being. How unsatisfying everything 
seemed! How narrow the boundaries of her life! Cut off 
by bitter poverty from social delights and pleasures of youth 


PASSION PAST. 


41 


— for she had bowed down to the false gods — pride and dis- 
content, sacrificing to them those who would have been her 
friends and associates. She had said, “I can accept no hos- 
pitality I can not return, in the way of entertaining.” So 
the young people had grown tired of making further over- 
tures, and left her to her loneliness. 

A gentler mood seized her at last, as her mind went back 
to her father lost many years before — to her patient mother, 
who had borne with such patience the burdens laid upon her. 
□ It is said, with the first dawn of a young girl’s love, comes 
self-abnegation, aspirations for nobler things. Was it this 
sudden passion commingling with the latent possibilities so 
long dormant in the girl’s nature that stirred her to-night and 
lifted her thoughts upwards '( 


CHAPTER VI. 


The heart awhile, with wanton wing, 

May dip and dive in love’s sweet Spring; 

But ah! the spring may chill ; the heart may freeze. 

The morning dawned bright and beautiful as only those 
mornings of September do when late summer is blending into 
autumn. The sunshine streaming through the window made 
the sick room very pleasant and cheerful looking. 

Mrs. Fontaine was in the kitchen preparing a dainty break- 
fast for the stranger so unceremoniously thrust upon her care, 
when the door opened, and Clare entered looking dispirited 
and listless, as if she, too, had passed a sleepless night. 

“You look as if you did not sleep after all, Clare. This 
has been too much for you; such a terrible sight it must have 
been. ’ ’ 

“Yes, try as I would, the picture was before my eyes all 
night. How is the gentleman, mamma ?” beginning to set 
the little table, thus avoiding her mother’s eyes. 

“Much better!” she answered, placing two slices of bread 
to toast before the lire, then turning over a juicy steak on the 
broiler. “Although he manifests much impatience to be on 
his way, for he says, sick or well, he must be in New York 
the coming week — still, he is very grateful, Clare.” 

“Grateful, mammal One would not mind if his gratitude 
were to assume a more substantial turn than mere thanks, 
eh?” with a contemptuous little laugh* 

“How mercenaiy that sounds, Clare! ‘Whosoever giveth 
a cup of cold water in My name;’ but run daughter, and 


PASSION PAST. 


43 


bring a glass of currant jelly; he may like it. Sick people 
usually do .’ 1 

“For the cup of cold water you give him currant jelly; 
and, taking it altogether, this breakfast will cost us a half 
day’s sewing,” she said, handing the glass to her upon 
returning to the kitchen. 

And well the mother knew this, and for a moment a shadow 
rested on her calmly beautiful face; but only for a moment, 
then it was gone again. 

“When we allow such thoughts to come to us, we should 
stop and think how much more fortunate we are than some 
others,” she replied gently. 

“Ido think of all that, mamma,” still rebellious, “but I 
remember also, how few pleasures we have. I can not recall 
when life was different from now. Does it not seem unjust 
that we should so need money while others less deserving 
should have more than they can use? Sometimes I think 
grandpapa’s will another mistake, for on the sale of Oak Cot- 
tage your life might have been comparatively easy; but, as 
it is, it takes all John can make off the garden to pay taxes 
on a mere shelter.” 

“Clare! Clare!” the mother replied in serious displeasure, 
“it is not for you to question your grandfather’s wisdom. I 
have never done so.” 

“But mamma, why has God given us faculties for the 
enjoyment of pleasures and denied us those pleasures, and at 
the same time requires us to be satisfied in the station of life 
to which He has called us ? Mamma, I sometimes envy the 
liberated slaves, Chloe and Daphne their contented minds. 
Were it not for the ‘Camden pride’ I unfortunately inherited 
with Oak Cottage I would go and work, but as it is, what can 
Ido?” 

Never had the girl expressed herself so strongly and bit- 
terly, and her mother said with a voice full of trouble and 
anxiety: 

“Your conceptions of submission to the Divine Will which 
should hold the first place in the consciousness of every 
human soul, are painfully vague and unlike those I would 


44 


PASSION PAST. 


wish my daughter to feel. It has been a source of inexpress- 
ible grief to me, that I have not been able to procure every- 
thing you need and wish for, but I am puzzled to know from 
whom you have inherited those socialistic tendencies, 
Clare.' 1 “ 

“They have growm with my growth, until now in putting 
away my childish thoughts these must have sprung suddenly 
into maturity;” and now her eyes tilled with the tears she 
could no longer keep back. 

“Well, Clare,^ some other time we will talk of these things. 
I must take in Mr. Woodland’s breakfast, and will you go 
and gather a few of those late roses for his table?” 

The girl complied at once, glad to be so dismissed. With 
her hand full of the rarest of the roses, she paused a moment 
by the gate gazing off into vacancy; yet her eyes saw noth- 
ing, for the strange, sweet intoxication of this new influence 
was upon her, shutting out all other sensations. 

“How different everything seems from yesterday! 1 think 
I will put on the dress I wore last night before I take the 
flowers to him,” with a contemptuous glance at the offend- 
ing gingham she had on. It never had looked so cheap and 

ugly- 

Retracing her steps she placed the roses in a bowl of fresh 
water and hurried to her room. 

“Even it is horridly plain,” turning the cream and scarlet 
combination over discontentedly. 

“Oh! I remember putting something into the pocket last 
night. What can it be?” and excitedly thrusting her hand 
in the opening, she drew forth a tiny gold watch charm, one 
of those pretty devices serving as a receptacle for a minature. 

“What secret is thi^ little toy about to disclose?” she 
wondered touching the spring. Two pairs of blue eyes, 
those of a lady and gentlemen look into her own, and instinct- 
ively she first studies the former. 

Even her jealous eyes admit it to be a lovely face, a purely 
blonde face framed in with a halo of golden hair. She looked 
at the other. 

“They are brother and sister, for any one could see the 


PASSION PAST. 


45 


likeness. Though there is a striking contrast, they must be 
his own. Now had I better take it to him at once, or keep it 
until he misses it?” For the thought suddenly came to her 
that possibly no such tie existed. 

Hastily donning the dress and assuring herself that her 
hair was in order, she ran down stairs almost into the arms 
of Doctor Wilcox. 

“Such an onslaught as that is hard for an old fellow; now if 
I were but a young man again!” he cried, extricating himself 
and holding her at arm’s length. 

“You are not old, doctor,” she answered saucily. 

“Just turned fifty-five the last mile-stone,” he said with a 
little sigh she failed to understand. 

“You are early, doctor; will you share my breakfast? 1 
have not eaten mine yet. ” 

“Thank you, but I have breakfasted an hour ago. I 
thought I would begin my round of calls with your guest. 
How is he this morning?” 

“Doing nicely, mamma says. I was just about to take 
him some roses. He had a narrow escape last night,” trying 
to speak unconcernedly. 

“He may have a narrower one if he is confined to his bed 
long with you for a nurse.” 

“Mamma says he is anxious to go on;” ignoring the words 
and quizzical look. 

“We trust he may prove more tractable under the battery 
of those black eyes, for I herewith install you assistant nurse 
to help keep him in order for two weeks at least.” 

With a poor assumption of indifference she looked into the 
genial face when he re-appeared a half hour later, then 
resumed her task of putting the room in order. 

“Is Mr. Woodland through with breakfast? If he is I’ll 
take the roses now,” feeling that she must say something. 

“Yes, take them to the boy, but my dear, before you go 
let me warn you against those brown eyes, for if there is a 
vulnerable spot in your heart they may prove a dangerous 
weapon. ” 

“There is but one vulnerable spot and a golden arrow is the 


46 


PASSION PAST. 


only weapon that can reach it. Yellow shining gold! how I 
love it. Nothing gives such self satisfaction nor imparts the 
lofty mindedness that it does,” laughing gayly. 

“Something tells me that you will fall in love with and 
marry a man without a dollar. You needn’t demur and 
shake your head. I know you better than you know yourself, 
Clare.” 

“Doctor,” she spoke seriously as he stood on the step, 
“believe me or not, but no future would seem so dreadful as 
one of spending my life as I have seen mother live hers. 
Have I shocked you with such sentiments?” for the kind gen- 
ial face looked gloomy and careworn at her words. 

“I had no idea it was so bad, and that you are such a wor- 
shiper of the golden calf. What would you be willing to do 
to get out of it all my dear ?” 

“Anything, I believe. Why do you ask?” 

“I may tell you sometime but not now. Take your flowers 
to the boy; and Clare,” a flush starting into his face, “your 
poor mother looks weary after a night’s watching. If you 
promise not to flirt you may look after him for an hour or 
two that she may get the rest she needs. ” 

“I promise. I’ll sit quietly by his bed and let him admire 
me;” she said demurely. 

“I’m glad to know you will not talk him to death. Take 
care of the little mother. Good bye. I wish you could go 
to take care of my horse.” 

“I wish I could. Bon jour rnomeur le docteur ? ’ throwing a 
kiss after him. 

But the merriment faded out of the genial face, again leav- 
ing it sad and thoughtful. 

“Ah Fontaine! you gave me a hard task at Malvern. Her 
heart is buried in his grave yet I will serve her all my life 
rather than marry any other,” he said to himself. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Then oh ! what pleasure where e’re we rove 
To be sure to find something still that is dear, 

And to know when far from lips that we love. 

We’ve but to make love to the lips that are near. 

— Moore. 

As the doctor drove off (dare took up the bowl of flowers 
and hurried on her way; and thus it came about that the 
young girl, whose heart was filled with passion and head with 
romance, went to meet her fate. 

Why did no warning come to her to awaken her percep- 
tions to the danger lurking within the depths of those brown 
eyes and about the rather irresolute mouth? 

Stifled with a sudden sense of embarrassment she stood in 
the doorway a moment looking at the young man. His own 
eyes were wondering aimlessly about the room; but, arrested 
by the graceful form, they became riveted thereon, until the 
admiration and surprise brought the warm blood to her 
cheeks. Shyly she held out her hand which he eagerly 
clasped. 

“The same face I saw last night and that confounded doc- 
tor wouldn’t tell me,” he muttered half aloud. 

“The doctor?” she questioned in the sweetest voice he had 
ever heard. “Possibly I failed to catch your words, but did 
you ask for the doctor?” 

He laughed a happy, careless laugh till a twinge of pain 
reduced him to order. 

“Spare me the infliction of old Saw Bones if you want me 
to get out of this. I hope you have come to talk to me.” 

“I feel sure you must be a dreadful person to speak so of 


48 


PASSION PAST. 


our good doctor, ” she said severely, “but I am glad to see 
you better. See! I have brought you some roses, aren’t they 
lovely?” holding them so he could inhale their fragrance, then 
putting them on the table by the bed. 

“And fair as the rose is she,” he said softly, Hashing a 
look from his brown eyes that set her heart to thumping in 
an unaccountable manner. “But pardon me, I have not yet 
heard the name of my good Samaritan.” 

“Fontaine — Clare Fontaine; but I am forgetting my errand. 
The doctor sent me to look after your wants while mamma 
lies down a little while. Now tell me, Mr. Woodland, what 
I am to do for you.” 

“Talk,” he implored. “The doctor says I must not, and 
surely after all my suffering I am entitled to some relaxa- 
tion. ” 

“I feel somewhat at sea, Mr. Woodland, not knowing the 
bent of your mind. What shall 1 talk about? politics? 
books ? no ? then — ” 

“Love? Yes, Miss Fontaine, love, p\ir et simple. Surely 
the possessor of such a face must have more than one love 
story,” and he laid his left hand very caressingly on her own, 
at which the bright scarlet leaped to her face. 

“You are rude to speak so to me and — besides, there is 
nothing to tell of myself. I do think I must leave you now,” 
she said coldly. 

“Oh, do forgive me and stay. I didn’t mean to offend, I’m 
sure. I believe, Miss Fontaine, your mother is a widow. ” 

“Yes, my father lost his life in sixty-two at Malvern.” 

“At Malvern! what a coincidence! My father left an arm 
there. This should make us kindred,” he went on eagerly; 
but she would not fall in with this train of inductive reason- 
ing without protest, and made no answer for a moment, while 
he lay quiet, studying the charming face, no doubt contem- 
plating some mode of expending the surplus vitality amassed 
in the few hours of inactivity. How irksome for a boyish 
nature, full of buoyant life and mischief, to be suddenly 
stricken into helplessness. If he were really ill in body, his 
mind weakened by sickness. But as it was he felt an almost 


PASSION PAST. 


49 


irresistible longing to puli the tail of poor tabby, dozing 
the forenoon away in the hall, adorn with tin pail the rear 
appendage of Nero, basking in the sunshine outside — or tease 
the pretty girl near him. 

Of the three, only the last was possible in his helpless con- 
dition, and there was something about her telling him not to 
go too far. 

“Miss Fontaine, surely you will forgive me. I have been 
lying here trying to guess your age — sixteen or seventeen?’’ 

“Yes,” hardly knowing how to resent the liberty. 

“Now, you are angry, 1 know, but do you kuow, Miss 
Fontaine, how becoming it is? just the eyes and mouth. I’ve 
seen girls who didn’t look a tall like that; but you look posi- 
tively dangerous. Please don’t hurt me. ” 

“Do I really? Why, I don’t feel so formidable, Mr. 
Woodland, although you have been very insolent towards 
me. ’ ’ 

“Now, I won’t plead guilty, for *you are pretty enough to 
have had a score of lovers. Perhaps you’re in love with some 
fellow now. I know how susceptible we fellows are to the 
charms of beauty such as yours, by myself hard hit as I am.” 

She had not the courage to leave him, neither did she know 
how to meet audacity such as this, the roguish brown eyes, 
the changeable intonations of the alluring voice, so she sat in 
painful blushing silence allowing him to rattle on. 

“But 1 knew how it would be. I feel quite annihilated — 
wiped out of existence as it were. Now Miss Fontaine if 
you will forgive me, indeed I’ll promise not to offend again. 
If you don’t, I feel sure I’ll never live to see my poor mother 
again. ” 

“Forgiveness I think should come only after repentance, 
which I’m sure you haven’t done, besides, you can’t expect so 
grave an offence to meet with so ready a pardon. I must 
first test your sincerity,” she found voice to say. 

“You and I seem to get along so badly somehow,” he 
sighed. 

‘ ‘That is not my fault, for I came here with the kindest in- 
tentions. I think you are incorrigible.” 


50 


PASSION PAST. 


‘Tin turning over a new leaf right now, and as love seems 
to be a tabooed subject we’ll choose something else^ — yourself 
and mother. What a sweet gentle face your mother has! 
talk of your life here. I do want to know more of those who 
are being so kind,” he begged. 

“My life has been too uneventful to interest a stranger. I 
should not know where to begin nor end. It don’t seem to 
have either.” 

“That is impossible for me — I mean the lives of two such 
women couldn’t have been uneventful.” 

Under the influence of his flattery she humored him with a 
brief sketch of her grandparents, her own parents, but 
scarcely touching her own life, while he lay watching her ex- 
pressive countenance. 

“You see there’s not much after all, but when I am old 
enough to sell the house that my grandfather’s will prevents 
my mother from selling 1 intend to make my life different or 
I must die. I cannot bear it. ” 

“Neither could I, and I pity you; but Miss Fontaine, I too 
know something of the anguish felt by the last of a grand old 
race,” he said in a tone of sympathy that stirred her deeply, 
so different was it from the bantering one of awhile ago. 
“My own grandfather was reduced to the extremity of seeing 
the home in which all the associations, joys and griefs of his 
whole life had been centered, pass from him, as one of the 
effects of the late civil war. The very breath of it is evil 
laying waste as it did, so many happy homes. But, go on 
Miss Fontaine.” 

“I’m tired of my own voice and you interest me,” falling 
under the charm of this new phase of a volatile nature. 

“Oh I have finished,” he said, “you must be like your 
father Miss Fontaine? Your mother is so different.” 

“I am told that I am very much like him. Poor little 
mamma! Her heart broke I think after that battle at Mal- 
vern; and then her lot since that has been a hard one, trying 
as she does, to keep the wolf from the door, that even with 
John’s help she sometimes finds very difficult.” 

In her self absorption she forgot that she was saying all 


PASSION PAST. 


51 


this, to a thorough stranger, the thing she would have died 
rather than reveal. Surely, it was a strange spell his fascin- 
ating presence was throwing over the sensitive reticent girl! 
A thought of this suddenly came to her for a wave of color 
passed over her face and her eyes fell. 

U I am afraid I have’nt the patience to endure all things Mr. 
Woodland, for I grow very rebellious at times — within the 
narrow limits of Oak Cottage, for surely few lives have so 
little in them.” 

The young man for a moment turned away his eyes from 
her own as he saw them fill with angry tears. 

Suddenly she made a motion as if to rise when he arrested 
her by laying his hand persuavisely upon hers, lying on the 
bed. 

“Don’t go. Did you think I did not care? Believe me our 
lives 1 think are all made up of little things,” he said, “ambi- 
tions, hopes, joys, sorrows whose synonym is — infinity. As 
you now stand on the portal of your young life, when you 
chance to look backward it may seem narrow, but in the long 
vista ahead how boundless it appears! Moral; do not in- 
dulge in retrospect but look forward.” 

“And what confronts me Mr. Woodland ? a great hard stone 
wall.” 

“Even a stone wall has its vulnerable points or can be 
climbed over,” he said, laughing. 

What was it in the boyish face so near her own, in the eyes 
in whose brown depths the mist gathered when her’s filled 
with tears, in the carressing touch of the white hand laid 
upon her’s during the end of her recital, and from which her 
own was not withdrawn, that stirred her soul so strongly and 
made this day different from all the days she had lived and all 
of those to come? 

Sympathy — fellow feeling, compassion, so hath said the 
great Webster; the word before whose magic power the 
“Camden pride” had bowed itself to-day, for in all her life 
Clare had never spoken of these things to any one. 

“Mr. Woodland,” she said rising, “do you know that my 
coming to see you this morning was conditional, and that the 


52 PASSION PAST. 

doctor laid the severest restrictions on this unruly member of 
mine?” 

“That! for the old prig!” with an elegant but very expres- 
sive snap of the fingers. 

“But I must really leave you now.” 

“Not without a promise to come again very soon, this 
afternoon say,” with a tender squeeze of her hand that sent 
a quiver through her. 

‘No, this afternoon will be too soon; you must have time 
rally from this. I’ll send you something to read and prom- 
ise to come in the morning. ” 

“But,” he urged, “I have something for you to do that 
should be attended to this afternoon; really important, some- 
thing that I can’t put off.” 

“I suppose I must give way, at three then,” she laughingly 
agreed; then she left him. 

“Had you failed to come at the moment you would have 
found me cold and rigid,” was his cheerful greeting as she 
appeared in the doorway. 

“I am happy to have come so opportunely, though you 
don’t look in the least like a dying man,” feeling to the bot- 
tom of her foolish heart that he was looking handsomer than 
ever with his faultless features and beautiful eyes. 

“My appearance is very deceiving,” with a grin, “just feel 
my pulse, down to forty, I think.” 

“Then we had better hasten with our work or the end may 
come before it’s finished. What is it, make your will?” 

For answer he caught her hand lying on the bed. 

“I would not assign so gresome a task to a hand so lovely, 
though it is an amanuensis I want. ” 

“To whom am I to write — your sweetheart?” 

“Sweetheart! oh no,” coloring slightly under the sudden 
jealousy in her eyes. “I wished to ask you to write a note 
to my mother. I promised to keep her apprised of my 
movements.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“I’ll get writing materials at once,” springing up with 
alacrity, and « very much relieved. 

For a few minutes the pen, following his dictation skimmed 
over the paper; then he paused. 

“Surely this is not all?” she asked as a thought of the 
blonde face came up. 

“I seldom get beyond a page Miss Fontaine. As a letter 
writer I am a failure: and I shall write when I can use my 
hand; tell mother that, will you?” 

“How frightfully illiterate you must be! now one could fill 
a tiny page like that in messages to brothers, sisters, cousins, 
to say nothing of servants, ” she ventured. 

“It is my misfortune to be brotherless and sisterless and 
aside from a few cousins, who don’t count, there’s but one 
other, the dear old dad and you know he and the mater are 
one,” replied the obtuse young man. 

“Well the address then if there is nothing more,” hardly 
able to conceal her disappointment. 

“What a pretty hand you write!” taking the addressed 
letter; but she arose saying with a business air: 

“If you wish, I can leave this at the post office, as I am 
going out and shall pass it on my way. ” 

“Must you leave me so soon — Clare?” 

“At once, and I shall expect you to sleep all evening,” the 
blood mounting her cheek at the last word “Clare.” 

“Not unless you promise to come again.” 

u Bon jour! au jjlaisir de vous revoir monsieur /” 


54 


PASSION PAST. 


“Why has he never mentioned his loss?” she asked herself 
as she went on her way. 

U I think it was love at first sight with both of us. It's 
surprising after all how easily a man’s love is won!” she con- 
tinued complacently. “But why should he not fall in love 
with me? my blood is just as blue as his, he says I am beauti- 
ful. My mirror tells me the same thing. Oh wouldn’t the 
doctor laugh if he knew how soon I have surrendered? and 
to a poor man at that!” 

Hollidale was but one day older when she again appeared 
before Woodland, a guiter in her hand. He clasped the other 
tragically: 

“I was contemplating something desperate Clare, you dear 
little sister of mercy!” 

“How far had your contemplations carried you?” she asked 
merrily. 

“To the top of that projecting rock, a rafter in the barn or 
the bottom of the well,” accompanying this startling answer 
with pantomimic gestures even more startling. 

“This makes the second time I have saved your life. I 
wonder if I could not exorcise those gloomy contemplations 
with some of my incomparable music?” 

“I think a touch of those fairy fingers on the strings would 
bring me back to life if I were dying.” 

“What are your favorites Mr. Woodland ? I know but fe v 
though. Love songs?” mischieviously. 

“Yes,” he eagerly assented, “something that imparts a 
kind of all overish feeling — to — lovers.” 

“How foolish you are,” coloring vividly under the quizzical 
eyes. “Is this sufficiently all overish?” 

“We met, ’twas in a crowd.” 

“It sounds like a funeral dirge; it quite crushes me Clare. 
If you go on I know I shall weep, and crying in my weak con- 
dition may be my death.” 

“You surely are a man of many moods,” replied the other. 

And in this way the afternoon passed to the silly young 
pair, in song and laughter, in forgetfulness. 

“The world forgetting: by tlie world forgot.’ 


PASSION PAST. 


55 


The girl had never felt so free and happy. The young 
man said at last: 

4 'What power and passion there is in your voice Clare! 
Has it ever occurred to you that it might repay careful 
training?” 

“I have often times dreamed dreams. My one wish always, 
has been to be a public singer.” 

“The very thing you ought to do. Why Clare! what a 
tragedy queen you might become,” he cried enthusiastically. 

That he should advise such a step! Try as she would she 
could hardly hide the feeling of disappointment. That he 
of all persons could suggest such a thing! 4 ‘Clare!” momen- 
tarily checked by her abstraction, 44 if you will play the 
accompaniment I’ll try 4 My Queen.’” 

“No, no!” she objected. “You are not strong enough yet 
and you know my professional reputation is at stake.” But 
he would have his way. 

44 If I’m not allowed to get well in my own way, I won’t at 
all,” he grumbled. * 

“You are a very refractory patient I fear,” she said tight- 
ening the strings of the instrument. 

“That’s a good girl Clare. Now fancy I’m your Prince 
Charming singing to his young woman.” 

In spite of her efforts she felt the blood dying her cheek, 
then after one or two discordant notes her self control re- 
sumed its sway and without a tremor she went on to the close. 

“ Whether her birth be noble or lowly 
I care no more than the spirits above,” 

acted on her brain like some strong intoxicant; and, as his 
voice lingered seductively on “My Queen! Ah! My Queen!” 
she arose to her feet unable to bear any more. 

“I must go,” she gasped. “Mamma needs me I am sure.” 
He looked at her wonderingly. 

“Why Clare, what ails you? does music always affect you 
so ?” 

“Not always, at times, when I am not well,” she stammered, 
hardly conscious of what she was saying. 

One! two! three! four! sounded the town clock at that mo- 
ment, and Woodland exclaimed: 


56 


PASSION PAST. 


“That reminds me of my watch which must have run down 
ages ago. Will you help me wind it Clare?” 

Surely if he had not discovered the loss of the trinket, he 
would do so now, and as she complied she almost held her 
breath. 

“A one-handed man can hardly manage such an affair as 
this,” trying to insert the k< y. 

“Let* me do it for you, Mr. Woodland.” She held it in 
her hand long enough to see pasted in the hunting case a 
duplicate of the miniature resting in her own pocket. 

“Oh, Mr. Woodland, what a lovely picture! whose is it?” 
she asked, resolved to make him speak. 

The fiery color leaped to his face. Yet he evaded the 
question : 

“A friend, Clare. I may tell you about her before I leave. 
Thank you for helping with the troublesome watch. Clare, 
to reward me for that song I want you to be kind enough to 
drop that ‘Mr.’ that always makes me look around to see if 
you are not speaking to my grandfather. Don’t do it any 
more, but call me Horace, will you?” 

“And we have’nt known each other quite two days?” she 
demurred. 

“I feel as if I’d always known you Clare, dear little girl, . 
and the kindest nurse boy ever had. ” 

The soft tender words, accompanied by a caress on the 
hand lying so near, lulled to sleep the last suspicion; yet 
through it all, he had not spoken one word to show any of 
the passion which stirred her own heart. 

The foolish immature girl of seventeen had yet to learn 
that without the question “will you be my wife Clare?” these 
were but idle thoughtless words. 

“I like not these moods of yours Mr. Woodland,” she pro- 
tested making a final effort to break the spell which inthralled 
her senses. 

“Mr. Woodland again!” reproachfully, “that demonstrates 
the fact that you don’t want to be friends. Well, I shall soon 
be gone if I keep on improving.” 


PASSION PAST. 


57 


“Are you so impatient to leave us?” with a wistful tremor 
in her voice and conquered at once. 

“One must attend to business and a matter of an impera- 
tive nature demands my being in New York in a few day,” 
he answered evasively. 

The suspicious tinge in the young man’s face brought back 
her former doubts, and with curiosity and courage born of 
both she said a little tremulously: 

“What an air of mystery seems to surround us to-day! It 
really suggests a possibility of there being a woman in the 
case, Mr. Woodland.” Instantly regretting the foolish 
speech, she hastened to add — 

“Can you forgive words so unfeminine and indelicate? For 
the moment I forgot that decorum has limited our rights to 
narrower boundaries than those environing the more privil- 
eged sex. ” 

“Don’t disparage your privileges, Clare,” was the smiling 
answer. “I owe you my own confidence in return for yours, 
and before I go I may tell you all about it, woman and all.” 

She felt that she must be satisfied with the meagre conces- 
sion, for there was a sudden compression of the handsome 
mouth showing her he would tell her nothing more. She 
turned away at that. 

“You are not leaving me in anger, Clare?” 

“Angry, Mr. Woodland? How absurd! What right have 
I to question your motives for silence?” And with the air 
of the tragedy queen he had called her, she passed through 
the doorway. 

Passionate, capricious, beautiful Clare! What great possi- 
bilities her nature possessed! Yet, being as she is, “the very 
slave of circumstance,” she feels within herself that only un- 
der favorable and happy auspices the highest development of 
these is possible, forgetting — 

“A woman’s rank 

Lies in the fulness of her womanhood: 

Therein alone she is royal.” 


CHAPTERJX. 


Had tie tmt told me ’ere the deed was done 
It were less hitter ! Sometime I could weep. 

To be thus cheated like a child asleep; 

Were not my anguish far too dry and deep? 

The week was the shortest Clare Fontaine had ever known. 
At its close Horace Woodland was still an inmate of Oak Cot- 
tage, though he had decided to undertake his journey north 
in a day or two. 

The constant companionship of the fun loving boy with his 
irresistible fascination of handsome face and manner, had 
wrought sad havoc with poor Clare’s impressionable heart, 
changing the tiny spark enkindled that first night into a con- 
suming passion. 

Yet, to do Woodland justice, he was unconscious of the 
conflicts raging within the girlish heart, for with all her im- 
pulsiveness, she had not betrayed her emotion, having suc- 
ceeded in preserving an /outward placidity of demeanor very 
much at variance with inward feelings. 

To be sure her step had lost much of its old buoyancy and 
her cheek its fresh bloom. Her unsuspecting mother ascribed 
the change to the unusual excitement of the past week and 
with his departure everything would fall back into the same 
old groove, she thought. 

This last evening Mrs. Fontaine had gone out to see an old 
sick woman who lived near by, and John was nodding his 
wooly head over the kitchen stove awaiting her return that 
he might lock up the doors before going to bed himself. 

Faithful old John! Happy in his humble state and the con- 
sciousness of his own honesty and integrity! 


PASSION PAST. 


59 


The girl held in her hand Browning’s sad and impassioned 
story of Aurora Leigh, reading in her well modulated voice, 
while Woodland sat near her, his eyes alternating between 
her pretty face and the cheerful little blaze in the grate, 
though his thoughts were far away as was proven a moment 
later. 

“Clare,” he spoke suddenly, and she laid down the book 
and waited for him to go on; “do you know 1 have been here 
a whole week?” 

“Yes, you came on the nineteenth and to-night is the 
twenty-sixth. Are you growing tired of us, Mr. Wood- 
land?” 

“You know better than that, La Reine. ” There was a tre- 
mor in the young voice that touched his happy, careless 
heart. He had often felt puzzled over the girl, but no inkling 
of the real state of her feelings had dawned upon his rather 
dull perceptions. In all their mutual chats and exchanges of 
confidence, neither had read the one secret in the heart of the 
other. 

He sometimes thought she might have a lover, and, had 
thought in a vague kind of way, it would be no end of fun to 
awaken the dormant passions in such a nature, and had he 
not possessed just sufficient stamina, to keep him true to a 
certain young lady in New York, who, besides being sweet 
and loveable, was worth one or two hundred thousand, he 
may have tried, knowing as he did, his own capabilities of a 
stronger passion than tb t felt for the rich beauty. 

“Then, Mr. Woodland, why need you go yet? Wait a few 
days longer,” she urged. “You have not yet seen anything 
of our beautiful country. It is said to be unsurpassed by 
anything in the far west, or even Europe.” 

“I wish I could stay, Reine, and spend a few days rambling 
over those hills with you. but, just now, it is impossible. If 
one makes engagements one must keep them you know, and 
I ” 

He broke off suddenly, avoiding her eyes as he colored. 

“And — yours is too important to postpone you have 
already told me?” her dark jealous eyes watching him. 


60 


PASSION PAST. 


“Altogether too important. Indeed, Clare, my whole fu- 
ture depends upon keeping it.” 

“Oh Horance! Are we never to meet again ?” 

The girl was now about to throw prudence to the winds. 
She felt that evasions, merry badinage and trilling with her 
were no longer possible — that the turning point in her life 
must be to-night But Woodland, all unconscious of the 
storm raging within her soul, was speaking: 

“Why, Clare, such a possibility never occurred to me. In- 
deed we shall meet again. Why, my dear little sweetheart, I 
would have died had it not been for you.” and he took the 
little hand lying on the arm of his chair and carried it to his 
lips. 

“Dear little sweetheart!” What a fool after all to let a 
doubt of him take root in her soul, for no man would use 
such words if he were not in love. 

“Oh no, you wouldn’t have died Horace. You were to be 
restored to — me to repay me for my trouble you know,” 
breaking into a happy little laugh. 

“Yes, Reine, I suppose any nurse would be grieved over 
the death of her patient, no matter how unworthy. Death! 
After all, what is it? Longfellow says: 

‘ ’Tis th« cessation of our breath’ 

“Don’t use the horrible word in connection with yourself, 
Horace, I can not bear it.” 

“Why, little girl, do you really care so much for your 
friend?” pressing his lips once more upon the hand he yet 
retained. 

“Care! I’m afraid to say how much l care. I dare not, I 
dare not. ” 

The ring of pain in the young voic6 was too nnmistakable 
to be longer ignored and for a moment he was too appalled 
to speak. Was it possible that this was to be the sequel of 
his romantic adventure with this little country girl? 

“Mr. Woodland,” she went on at last, “there is one thing 
I must tell you to-night. Why have you never spoken of 
this, or havn’t you missed it ? I found it under the tree that 
night. ” 


PASSION PAST. 


61 


He looked curiously at the bauble she put into his hand, 
then opening it he sprang to his feet with a low cry of amaze- 
ment: 

“Ethel Hereford!” 

“Who is Ethel Hereford Mr. Woodland? Is not the locket 
yours? And the other, don’t you see?” 

He pulled himself together with an effort and looked at the 
blanched face near him and the fatal truth was forced upon 
him, leaving him for a moment dumb. 

“The other? Yes, I didn’t see at first,” he said at last. 
“Clare! Clare! don’t look like that! Oh, God! What have 
I done to you my poor girl?” 

“Will you tell what the girl is to you ?” she asked, her beau- 
tiful dark face drawn and haggard. “And the other, Mr. 
Woodland? Can not you see this is a clue to your would be 
murderer?” 

“It is undoubtedly.” 

“And the likeness. Evidently those two are brother and 
sister. ” 

“They are cousins — and lovers,” he supplemented, feeling 
for the moment repaid for the falsehood, as a look of relief 
passed across her face. 

“Lovers?” eagerly, and with the enjoyment one feels over 
a rare morsel acceptable to the palate. , “Lovers, you said, 
didn’t you, or was I mistaken?” 

“Confound it all — the girl, myself and everything!” he 
muttered in an undertone as. many thoughts came crowding 
up. “Don’t let us talk of this any more. It is a family affair 
not to be divulged to strangers.” 

“Strangers, Horace!” Why are you so different from a 
week ago when you felt wounded that I should speak of our- 
selves as strangers?” 

“Forgive me, Clare, for not wishing to speak to you of 
these things, indeed I can not,” and, as once before, his lips 
closed like a vice, telling her she must know no more. 

“Thank you, Mr. Woodland, for re-calling me to my 
senses. From this moment I shall remember that we are 
strangers.” 


62 


PASSION PAST. 


“Oh, Clare, I didn’t mean that,” miserably. 

“It doesn’t at all matter what you meant,” turning to leave 
the room; then, in spite of all her bravery, she put her hands 
up to her face and broke into uncontrollable weeping. 

He was beside her in a moment, unable to bear the sight of 
her tears. “Again I ask you to forgive me, Reine. I’ll 
tell you all about it before I go, though you may hate me 
for it.” 

But she would wait to hear no more, and he was left to his 
own unpleasant thoughts. 

4 T could kick myself out of Hollidale for bringing trouble 
upon this dear little girl,” he reflected. “Why can I never 
be with a pretty girl without making love to her ? To think 
it was Hereford, after all, who gave me this pretty mark on 
my shoulder. So you are in love with her are you, poor 
dog?” In another hour he was fast asleep. 

Meanwhile “this dear little girl” was wrestling wildly with 
her grief in her own room where she had thrown herself 
across the bed. 

Some natures develop under the softening touch of sorrow; 
others grow hard and rebellious when called upon to drain 
the cup of bitterness; and Clare felt that she was draining 
this to its very dregs — that everything was going wrong. 
All chance of happiness was slipping away from her. 

“Oh, I hate you, Horace Woodland! I hate you!” she 
cried in her hopeless misery. 

She heard her mother come in and, after a few words to 
the invalid, ascend the stairs. Then waiting an hour or two 
to assure herself that all was quiet for the night, she arose 
and stole softly down to his door where she paused long 
enough to satisfy herself that he was sleeping soundly. 

Away with all silly fears! Step by step she steadily ad- 
vanced to the middle of the room. As she did this, her eyes 
were fixed upon a letter lying near the lamp. In another 
moment she had it in her hands, reading with burning, hun- 
gry eyes: 

Miss Ethel Hereford, 

No. — St — New York City. 


PASSION PAST. 


63 


He had left it unsealed, unintentionally, perhaps; and then 
came to her the greatest temptation of her life. She forgot 
that it was wicked, dishonorable; forgot everything in her 
frenzied jealousy; but like a guilty thing rushed from the 
room with it clasped in her hand. 

Throwing herself in the rocker she opened and read it 
through. 

“My Darling Ethel:—” it began. 

“No doubt you are anxious and perplexed at my long 
silence at such a time in our lives.” After writing briefly of 
his accident, he concluded thus: 

“You know, my pet, how heavily the hours drag along 
away from you; but the bliss of knowing that I shall be with 
you so soon, never to be parted from you again, helps me to 
bear the separation. Oh, yes, my own, I have something to 
whisper into your little ear; I have made a startling discovery 
— that a black-eyed fairy here in Hollidale is very much 
smitten with my charms; in fact, is in love with your own 

Tootsy VfooTSY.” 

And so this was the end of her sweet love dreams! To 
think how she had been duped in those seven days! What a 
simpleton to think the merrily spoken words, “Imagine I am 
your Prince Charming singing to his young woman,” applied 
to herself. 

“But before I sit down to quaff this bitter cup I must 
return the letter or he may awake and miss the precious 
thing,” she cried, starting to her feet; “then, in the long, 
miserable years to come I shall have too much time to mourn 
a broken faith and shattered idol.” 

She found Woodland in the same position, showing that he 
still slept. Then came the wish to look upon the beloved 
sleeping face. With Clare, to wish meant to act, and she 
went to the bedside. Pie was lying on his left side, his face 
partially turned to the wall. 

Can it be possible but one little week has passed by since 
she first saw him ? A whole life time seemed to have been 
lived in those seven days of dreams, hopes, love, jealousy! 
Yes, it had all been lived in such a small portion of her life, 


64 


PASSION PAST. 


and if it were all ended what would she do with the long, 
blank, empty years to come? 

“No, no! I can not hate him; at least not yet,” she whis 
pers, as she bends over him, her face almost touching his. 
The girl is not conscious of the act when her lips touch his 
soft brown hair. 

At the caress, his own part with a smile and she hears one 
name, “Ethel!” 

With a low cry she aroused from the trance into which she 
had fallen, as he aroused from his slumber and fixed his wide 
open eyes upon her. 

“Why, Clare! What is it?” drawing her down to him and 
kissing her on the lips.” “What is it, sweetheart?” 

“Horace! Horace! 1 cannot let you leave me to go to that 
girl who does not love you half so well,” she sobbed, yield- 
ing to the intoxication of his caresses and laying her face on 
the pillow. 

Bitterly cursing his own folly, he tried to calm the excited 
girl. If a momentary temptation came to him he put it away 
from him in loathing, for well he knew she would loathe her- 
self when reaction came. 

If the hot blood bounded through his veins at feeling the 
contact of her form against his own, he gathered himself to- 
gether before the fleeting passion found utterance in words; 
for, with all his weak, vaccillating nature, Horace Woodland 
was not a villain. 

Pity prevailed over all other sensations then. Pity! of all 
things, impossible of forgiveness by this girl of seventeen, 
whose heart must suffer all the agony and humiliation of be- 
ing so rudely awakened from its former unconsciousness. 

“You will not leave me, Horace? Say you will not go,” 
she pleaded with her face so near his own. 

“Reine! my poor girl try to forget all this; forget me, 
who is unworthy of so great a love.” 

“No! no! how little you know me, Horace. Why, to me 
you are a king — my king! You will not go, Horace?” 

“I may return, Reine, but now, I must go.” 

“Horace!” she whispered, starting up and listening intently 


PASSION PAST. 


65 


for a moment. “It is mamma! Oh, I am lost for she has 
heard me. What shall I do? What shall I do?” she moaned 
in terror. 

“Clare!” grasping her arm, “run to the kitchen — anywhere. 
If she comes down tell her you are thirsty and wish a drink. 
Run at once, and all will be well,” pushing her toward the 
door. 

“And you pretend to be asleep should she come here,” 
obeying him as he fell back and closed his eyes; and in the 
next minute the sound of voices came to him through the door 
which she had left ajar. 

“Why dear! is it you? I heard a noise and felt uneasy. 
Are you ill, Clare?” 

“No, mamma; I was looking for the water. I must have 
eaten something for supper that made me thirsty. Will you 
have a glass, mamma?” 

“I don’t care if I do take a little, now I’m down. It must 
have been the fish we ate. There, now, fly oft' to bed, or 
you’ll take cold. Why, Clare! you have not undressed yet!” 

“Not yet. I sat a long while, hating to come down, but 
now it’s over Til be in bed in a moment.” 

“I wonder if Mr. Woodland is thirsty, too?” laughed the 
mother, as the two passed the half-open door. 

“No; Mr. Woodland’s not thirsty! Mr. Woodland’s only 
sick of the whole darned mess, ” muttered that young man, 
settling himself down to quiet sleep as one having an easy 
conscience. 


CHAPTER X. 


May life’s unblessed cup for him 
Be drugg’d with treacheries to the brim— 

With hopes that but allure to fly. 

With joys that vanish while he sips, 

Like Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye, 

But turn to ashes on his lips ! 

It was not until the bright rays of the morning sun, falling 
upon the sweet, childish face, awakened her, that Clare real- 
ized that she had passed the whole night sitting in her chair 
by the window, her head resting on the sill. 

Awakened her to all the misery, self-torture, and a con- 
sciousness that for her mother’s sake she must keep up the 
farce to the end. 

Awakened her to a full realization that the horror of last 
night must go with her to her life’s end, and that nothing 
was left her but revenge for its indignities and humiliation. 

She arose wearily and began preparations for the beginning 
of the farce by bathing her face. Then, when she saw the 
deathly pallor of her cheeks, she knew if y r ould not escape 
her mother’s notice. Rouge she had none, so moistening a 
cloth she rubbed it on a scarlet rose adorning the wall paper. 

“No one could tell them from natural roses,” she said, sur- 
veying herself in the mirror. 

k ‘Are you strong enough to bear the fatigue of so long a 
journey, Mr. Woodland?” she heard her mother say as she 
took her accustomed chair at the breakfast table without 
casting her eyes in his direction. 

“I have no choice dear Mrs. Fontaine than to obey an 
urgent summons received last night. ” 


PASSION PAST. 


67 


“Last night? oh, I did not know; but I was out. We 
shall miss you, Clare and I, for, but for your unfortunate 
accident, your coming has been a pleasant break in the 
monotony of two lives. Dear, here is your coffee .' 5 This 
last to the silent girl. 

“Good morning, Miss Fontaine.” 

“Good morning!” so curtly that her mother looked at her 
in wonder. 

“Are you not feeling well, Clare? You are looking weary, 
as if you haven’t slept after all.” 

“How observant you are, mamma! My rest was quite 
unbroken, I assure you; indeed, I slept so late, and conse- 
quently dressed so hurriedly that I may have failed in putting 
on the usual shade of rouge;” forcing a little laugh.” 

“Rouge? why, Clare, I always thought your complexion 
faultless;” the anxiety in her own eyes deepening as she sur- 
veyed the young face more critically. 

“What is this I hear about your leaving us, mon ami?” 
catching at any distraction to turn the loving gaze from her- 
self and making a mighty effort to meet Woodland’s eyes 
unflinchingly. 

“He is to leave us on the first evening train, Clare.” 

“And our unappreciative, sleepy, little town, will know him 
no more forever! Poor Hollidale, will still live and have its 
being, forever unconscious of the angel it has been entertain- 
ing— ” 

But he answered conciliatingly: 

“When you have finished breakfast, Miss 'Fontaine, per- 
haps you will take the angel out. The rustle of his wings 
may yet cause a tiny ripple in the current; and I ought really 
to try my strength before undertaking so long a journey, I 
suppose.” 

“Thank you, but I think my own unequal,” a sudden blaze 
coming up. “Now, instead of expending yours in roving 
about, would it not be more romantic to stay indoors and 
nurse your grief at parting from those who appreciate you? 
No, no, I can not let our people witness my agony.” 

“Why, Clare” — began the mother. 


68 


PASSION PAST. 


a So you will not be persuaded?” he questioned a moment 
later, as with hat in hand he paused in the doorway. 

“Spare me the mortification of defeat a second time, the 
one thing impossible for a woman to forgive, for I am sure 
my strength would fail me,” she replied with quiet decision, 
though inwardly furious at his persistence. 

“I think Clare would enjoy seeing me roasted alive at this 
moment, now that reaction has come,” he muttered, as he 
went on his way to the post office to mail the letter which 
had wrought such havoc with the girl’s hopes. 

That afternoon at three the cottage was undergoing martyr- 
dom from two or three curious neighbors whom Mrs. Fon- 
taine was making heroic efforts to cheerfully entertain, and 
Clare, hoping to escape a last interview, had hidden herself 
in an old rustic seat in the back of the garden. 

But the girl knew this attempt to be futile when she heard 
his footfall in the soft grass beside her, and grasping the arm 
of the chair to steady herself, she turned to him desperate 
and defiant, the hot blood rushing wildly through her veins, 
the fire flashing from her black eyes. 

Our petted scion of a noble stock did not find himself alone 
with her without a lively consciousness of the coming con- 
flict, yet, knowing it could no longer be avoided, he met her 
with praiseworthy courage, saying: 

“I have been looking everywhere for you, Clare — even sent 
John to your room, thinking you might have fallen asleep 
there. Why did those chattering women take this afternoon 
of all others to come?” 

“Mr. Woodland, one week ago you came to Hollidale; 
now you are leaving, but on that account do not think our 
little town will consent to be turned upside down.” 

Evidently, at this rate, he must soon retire discomfited from 
the field. Clare, tearful and pleading, and Clare, scornful 
and aggressive were two different girls; still, he kept back 
the angry retort and said quietly: 

“Clare, you surely would not let me go without saying 
good-bye ? I am going, possibly, never to return, Clare. 1 
can not leave you thus.” 


PASSION PAST. 


69 


kt My one regret is that you ever came, and all I now ask 
is that you leave me to myself,” she replied bitterly. 

“Clare, our time is too short to spend in useless recrimina- 
tions, and I can not go till you say you forgive any wrong 
you think I have done you — 

“You express yourself badly, Mr. Woodland. What pos- 
sible wrong could you do me? If you thought to make a 
plaything of me you have failed, for instead, you have nau- 
seated me with your silly flattery, and wearied me with your 
whims.” 

“Clare,” suddenly fired with a determination to drive her 
to the wall and define her grievance;” “I should have found 
my ideal in you had I been free to love when I came here; 
also, I am not wealthy and you are poor. If, while knowing 
it impossible to ask you to be my wife, I have inspired hopes 
within your heart, I can only say I’m sorry and ask you to 
forgive me.” 

“Curse you! curse you! Horace Woodland!” her voice was 
hoarse with passion. “I could kill you for your insolence.” 

“To spare you that, I will leave you, for my train is 
almost due. I think Clare, we are both treating the matter 
too seriously, trying to turn a farce into a tragedy in this rid- 
iculous way. Good by Clare,” shrugging his shoulders non- 
challantly as he turned to go. 

Dizzy and faint she sank into the chair near which she had 
been standing, and over her face settled the hue of death. 
His ruse had succeeded. 

“To you it may be a trifling matter” — she gasped spas- 
modically. “i^o! not that, but leave me at once; it is all the 
kindness you can do me. Leave me I say, Horace Woodland, 
to my misery.” 

For instead of obeying, he had knelt before her, overcome 
by remorse. The dark velvety eyes softened by tears 
appealed to him very forcibly. 

“Reine, listen to me!” pleaded the boyish .voice. “When 
thrown upon your care, wounded and helpless, you came like 
a ministering angel to me, making a confinement, that other- 
wise would have been unbearable, almost a holiday. So 


70 


PASSION PAST. 


happy was I that for a time I forgot or lost sight of the 
graver duties and responsibilities awaiting me. In this way 
both have unconsciously drifted along. I could love you 
passionately Clare, so passionately that my duty to another 
tells me I must remain with you no longer — ” 

“Then it is true that you are to marry that pale-faced girl, 
and you dare talk thus to me ?” she interrupted. 

“The tenth will be my wedding day, Clare; forgive me 
and bid me leave you.” 

But she kept on: 

“Knowing all this you have basely, cruelly deceived me — 
insulted me by your kisses, held me in your arms— oh, the 
horror of last night! can I ever forget it!” she wailed, shroud- 
ing her face from him. 

“The sudden temptation, Clare; and, then, all young peo- 
ple do those things and think nothing of it,” he went on, 
lamely. 

“Do you mean to say you have gone through the same 
with others?” she continued. 

“Dozens, Clare; very few girls refuse to kiss afelkrw now- 
adays, I tell you.” 

For a moment she stared at him, trying to take in, to her, 
the odious revelation; then she broke out, passionately: 

“You dare to say such words to me, you cur, while kneel- 
ing at my feet? Get up! Get up, i say, or I will call John 
to throw you over the fence. Oh, how my treacherous heart 
has deceived me! Oh, that for one moment I, the daughter 
of a grand old race, could have fancied myself in love with 
such a craven — false in thought to the girl he is so soon to 
marry as he would have been to me!” 

Like the sting of a lash did he feel her words, and spring- 
ing to his feet he cried out. 

“Heine! Reine! You must be mad! I can not bear such vi- 
tuperation; unsay those dreadful words.” 

“Yes, I think I have been mad since the night I saw you 
lirst; the fiery blood of my French ancestors seems suddenly 
to have been transmitted to my veins and made me mad — ” 
she said wearily. 


PASSION PAST. 


71 


“Oh, my dear little friend, 1 would give my life to undo 
all this though I did not dream before last night that you 
cared ” 

‘•Yes; yes, I have been mad,” she moaned, unheeding the 
interruption, “and he will go away to his doll-faced Ethel — 
this cold-blooded American whose ruthless hand has slain my 
soul; but — ” her fury again increasing as she went on, “in 
his happiest hour when he least expects it, my revenge shall 
overtake him, ” 

In his arrogance he actually smiled at what seemed to him 
a childish threat, and for the second time turned to leave her. 

“What! going without one last handshake? At least let us 
clasp hands once more, for by doing so, I wish to ratify the 
vow inscribed this day on the tombstone marking the grave 
wherein lie the ashes of my buried hopes; it is but one little 
word — revenge! Now, coward! You may go!” 

He walked rapidly away, muttering: “By Jove!” with an 
expressive shrug, “to think of that puny child of seventeen 
threatening me, Horace Woodland! She speaks the truth 
when she says she’s mad, and the French element in her blood 
will land her in an insane asylum some day. There’s no 
reason in her,” and five minutes later he was seated in the 
coach bearing him on to Ethel and happiness, already for- 
getting, in the pleasant anticipation, the poor girl lying prone 
on the ground under one of the old oak trees in the garden. 

The afternoon was one in November and the clouds, heavy 
with snow, hung over the little city. Soon they burst and 
all without was quickly enshrouded in the spotless covering. 
The invalid chair had been placed near the window and its 
occupant was gazing out at the feathery snowflakes with 
gloomy, unappreciative eyes. 

“Oh, why did they not let me die and end it all when death 
would have seemed so easy and painless, just like a pleasant 
dream ? The thought of death always filled me with terror, 
but when it came so near I seemed to be drifting, drifting 
away — ah! is it you, cousin? You came in so softly I did not 
hear you. ” 


72 


PASSION PAST. 


For at that moment a lady had entered the room and knelt 
beside her. 

“Yes, dear, it is I, and I’ve come to have a chat with you. 
O how grand and glorious! How I enjoy this war of nature’s 
elements;” she exclaimed in her strong, bright way that 
boded ill for the “blues,” for a glance at the gloomy face 
told her that the girl was engaged in the morbid contempla- 
tion of some imaginary sorrow. 

A mirthless laugh being the sole reply to her overture, she 
went on: 

“I have something to tell you Clare, may I? your mother 
and 1 have been talking this afternoon and she sent me to tell 
you.” 

“Why, certainly, Lizzie, so tell me at once and don’t make 
me guesss, for my brain is so confused since my illness I can’t 
collect my thoughts together. Do tell me, there’s a dear.” 

“It is this, I have persuaded Alice to let me take you to 
the White mountains as soon as you are strong enough for 
the journey, so now you have an incentive to get well at once.” 
She answered, glad of the little show of interest, but the 
interest was gone, and Clare remained silent. How this 
opportunity would have filled her with delight a few weeks 
ago, but now it was so different. 

“Have you nothing to say dear, after all?” 

“I don’t feel as if I should ever care for any thing but to 
lie here day after day and think — think. I seem to have lost 
all desire for change or pleasure, Lizzie.” 

“Think, think, Clare! and of no one but yourself , no doubt! 
It is time now for you to think of another and that one is 
your mother. Cannot you realize the sin you are com- 
mitting every day in not trying to arouse yourself from this 
lethargic state? 

“Is anything the matter with mamma?” 

“Though she’s not exactly ill she’s not well, and you alone 
can help her Clare,” evasively. 

“I? Why cousin, I would give my life for mamma. Tell 
me what to do.” 

“Not give your life for her child, but try to get strong and 


PASSION PAST. 


73 


ha,ppy once more; so I’m going to pack yon off to the Hamp- 
shire hills in search of the roses yon have lost, then when you 
are once more rugged and fat you are to come back home to 
cheer and brighten the little mother’s life. ” 

The girl shaded her face with one thin hand while her com- 
panion caressed the other tenderly. 

“Lizzie,” she said at last as if trying to shape her 
thoughts into words. “1 have heard that any fancy which 
may previously have taken hold on the mind is apt to 
betray itself in the delirium of brain fever. Did — did I talk 
foolishly, Lizzie — though why should I have done so ? For 
with me no such fancy existed. ” But she awaited the reply 
with evident anxiety. 

“I can not think of anything. You did speak of an Ethel 
somebody a time or two, but your mother said you had prob- 
ably been reading a novel with an Ethel for the hereoin — 

“Yes, yes, cousin, I had no doubt, for I have never known 
an Ethel in real life in my life, so it must have been so,” 
again sinking back in her chair with an intense feeling of 
relief, as her doubts and fears were thus set at rest. 

“And now we are to begin preparations for our northward 
flight, Clare?” 

‘‘Lizzie, mamma and I are poor, wretchedly poor. I’m 
sure there’s not a dollar to spare, ” she protested. 

“You are not to worry over that for a moment, for I have 
invited you to go home with me. God has lent me something 
with which to do this; and besides, Clare, there is the money 
your late guest left you. ” 

“Our — late — guest — Lizzie ? What do you mean?” feeling 
as if she must die with this new shame. 

“He left a check with John for three hundred dollars, 
merely stipulating that the doctor should receive his fee out 
of it — and, child, it could not have come at a more opportune 
time, I know. ” 

The girl felt stifled. If the man were standing before her 
she felt that she could kill him for this insult — this throwing 
a bone to a dog! But, she could not explain all this to the un- 


74 


PASSION PAST. 


conscious woman near her, and with an effort to speak uncon- 
cernedly she asked: 

“I wonder how much the doctor’s fee was, Lizzie?” 

“Twenty- five dollars is all he would accept, your mother 
said. Now dear, I am going to leave you, for I must write a 
line to Charlie and my baby. I know Clare you will love my 
baby, for he’s the sweetest mother ever possessed. Just sit 
here and dream of the White Mountains until I return to you, ” 
and in a second she was gone leaving the girl to her gloomy 
reflections once more. 

“Two hundred and seventy-five dollars!” she muttered with 
colorless lips. “How munificent a price to pay for a broken 
heart, Horace Woodland! O, God! rest this weary brain 
from thinking, thinking, for a little while or I shall go mad, 
and then where will be all my hopes of revenge on this man ?” 

The room seemed to whirl around, her own voice sounded 
so far away and empty, and when Lizzie re-entered the girl 
lay there white and still. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Go then— 'tis vain to hover 
Thus round a hope that’s dead; 

At length my dream is over; 

’Twas sweet— ’twas false— ’tis fled! 

“Mamma, do not deceive me. I know that yon are ill and 
I ought not, and cannot, leave you.” 

“Dear, I don’t wish to deceive you, but why should I need- 
lessly alarm you? You must go, Clare.” 

“I consent on but one condition then; that you send for 
the doctor and take all the nasty medicine he gives you. Now, 
I know I shall not have to go, mamma.” 

“Gallons, to satisfy you, Clare. No doubt I do need a 
tonic, for I am run down, I believe.” 

“And I seem to have discovered it all at once this afternoon. 
How wickedly, selfishly blind I have been, mamma; but 
when I come home I will try to redeem the past — indeed I 
I will, mamma.” 

“God grant you may come back to me strong and well, 
Clare! then, I shall be well, too. Ah, child! what strange 
things have happened to us lately! First: Mr. Woodland 
came; then your illness and Lizzie’s visits, and now this 
journey of your’s.” 

At sound of the name spoken for the first time the girl’s 
head sank lower until the face was hidden in her mother’s lap. 

“Child, do you remember our conversation on the morning 
after he came and the hope that our remuneration might 
prove something more than thanks?” went on the uncon- 
scious mother, stroking lovingly the raven hair. 

“Yes, mamma, I remember.” She said in a low voice. 


76 


PASSION PAST. 


“Little did we think Clare, how rich we were so soon to be 
by merely performing a duty. Think of the pretty things 
you now have for your visit, for although Lizzie is so kind, we 
cannot accept too much.” 

“Oh, mamma, mamma!” thought the daughter, iC As Esau 
sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, so have I exchanged 
my life’s happiness for these paltry things which, for her 
sake I must wear and call pretty.” 

And then she said aloud: 

“Mamma, did you spend it all ?” 

“I don’t think I could have spent any of it, if Mr. Wood- 
land had not neglected to leave his address. Then came the 
temptation with your illness.” She spoke regretfully. 

“The poor cannot always choose, can they mamma? but 
you did not say if you have spent it all. ” 

‘ ‘There is quite one- third left, dear. I do wish we could 
write and thank Mr. Woodland, at least, but I fear the intri- 
cacies of the New York post office are too numerous and deep 
for a letter to reach him without his number and street. ” 

Clare remembered both, but she was silent. 

“What a bright vista this visit will open up for you, 
Clare! The thought of it must impart strength to you daily.” 

Had it not been for the constant secret brooding over her 
fancied wrong, the girl would have been happier than ever 
before in her life. Regarding Woodland, she had maintained 
an impenetrable reserve, which, if the mother noticed, had no 
doubt ascribed to the derangement of mind weakened by ill- 
ness. 

The week had been a very busy one, and the result was 
highly satisfactory to all. There were moments when Clare 
would almost forget the past in the contemplation of so 
much magnificence —the handsome silk, the three or four 
other pretty dresses, the dainty lingerie and innumerable 
articles which go to complete a modest wardrobe. 

Charlie had written of his cousin Douglas Maitland, a 
young minister whom he was expecting to swoop down on 
him any day for a visit of several weeks, and Lizzie’s fertile 
brain had at times been very busy weaving and fashioning 


PASSION PAST. 


77 


sundry garments of white silk and tulle and orange blossoms. 

All unconscious of her cousin’s hopes, Clare, one afternoon, 
sat listlessly picking out basting threads, sewing on buttons 
and such trifles as her weak fingers could perform, when 
turning to reply to her mother’s last remark in the rather 
desultory exchange of words, she saw the sewing fall from 
her hands while a haggard drawn look overspread the gentle 
face. Her mother had fainted. 

u Mamma, ” cried the frightened girl a half hour later as 
she knelt before her rubbing the little cold fingers, “I am not 
going to New Hampshire and leave you. No don’t ask me — .” 

“Oh Clare!” interrupted the other, “surely you would not 
disappoint me in this when I have counted so much on your 
going; I cannot allow you to follow a sudden impulse because 
it is a generous one, now all preparations are made.” 

“If you could go Mamma — why didn’t we think of it 
sooner?” 

“The journey would be too much for me dear. I have 
become indigenous to the West Virginia hills. My very 
heart strings are so interwoven with every vine and shrub 
about us that it would be suicidal to try transplanting to 
another soil at my age, so dear you must go alone.” 

Clare knew that further objection svould but add to her 
mother’s distress, so she said: “Then for the tonic. You 
must begin it at once, and mamma, another condition is that 
you spend the remainder of that money for warm clothing, 
wine and everything to make you strong and well. Agreed?” 

“Such a satiety of good things will make me more indo- 
lent than I am now, child; though I promise.” 

A click of the gate latch told them that Lizzie was coming, 
and soon she appeared with a letter in her hand. 

“That means your departure at once?” spoke the mother, 
pointing to it. 

“Yes, cousin; Charlie’s impatient now, Douglas has arrived, 
so I think we must go on the morjiing train while the weather 
is pleasant. Just listen here will you: 

“Douglas came three days ago and Bridget is beeoming can- 
tankerous. Every thing seeems at sixes and sevens and goth- 


78 


PASSION PAST. 


ing but a dog and cart will insure you a welcome from your 
son and heir.” 

“Poor Charlie,” she observed, folding up the letter, “to be 
fully appreciated, his correspondence is better left unread.” 

“Now, Lizzie, I fear you are hardly fair,” remonstrated 
Clare, laughing: 

“I do hope for a mild winter for Clare’s visit,” said her 
mother, a little anxiously. 

“We shall be very careful of her, Alice,” assured her 
cousin, understanding how bitter must be this parting from 
her child. “Of course, summer is more pleasant, but Clare 
must submit to wraps and blankets for chosing winter for her 
illness. ” 

So they started the following morning, and it was not until 
they disappeared from her sight that a full sense of her re- 
nunciation came upon the lonely mother. But bravely de- 
termining to look forward to their reunion in the spring she 
took up the daily routine of work. She was glad for this 
opportunity for Clare to make friends, then — well if anything 
should happen to her, the Lord might raise up some one in 
her stead through this visit. 

Perhaps the memory of her own short lived happiness pre- 
vented her from ever speculating on marriage for her child. 
There were but few eligible young men in Hollidale, two of 
whom, more courageous than the others, had offered to lay 
their meagre fortunes at her pretty feet; but Clare would 
have none of them. 

Who but he who has experienced it, knows the agony of 
self -contempt? Yet for a time Clare forgot her old trouble 
in the enjoyment of the new and varying scenes presented 
along the way. It was the opening of a new epoch in her 
life and she possessed a keen appreciation for the grand 
poems nature revealed. 

The swiftly changing panorama entranced her ; the hills 
studded with walnut, pine; sycamore and maple; the strag- 
gling huts and cabins dotting old plantations; little half-clad 
negroes playing about them; smoke-begrimed mining towns 
and manufactories. On, on, through it all, the great iron 


PASSION PAST. 


79 


monster rushed till, probably for the first time in her life, the 
girl was stirred with a sense of her own littleness. 

At last the White Sulphur Springs came in sight, and with 
a snort from his great throat the steed crossed the border into 
the land long sacred to her as the sepulchre of her soldier 
father. When she realized this, the emotion it called up was 
gratitude to God for permitting her to gaze upon the vast 
altar upon which he, with so many of his brave comrades, 
had offered up his life, the prrticulars of which had been fre- 
quently related to her by another comrade, Doctor Wilcox. 

With a memory clear and retentive, she possessed a 
thorough knowledge of the campaign of “62” and as she sat 
there, with her face pressed against the window pane, it lay 
as an open book before her. 

She remembered how the confederate garrison had been so 
hastely withdrawn from Norfolk to aid in the defense of 
Richmond, so soon to be followed by the fearful carnage at 
“Seven Pines;” how, on the last day of May, and the first of 
July, the commander so nearly lost his life and whose posi- 
tion, two days later, was filled by the military genius, Robert 
E. Lee. Then the attack upon the Eederals at Oak Grove, 
with its fierce battle pronounced “Indecisive,” flashing over 
the wires. On she went with Louis Fontaine to Mechanics- 
ville, where he seemed still to bear a charmed life. Surely 
God intended to spare the lonely waiting mother through 
even the horrible seven day’s carnage! 

A hurried march— an hour’s rest; then he again led his few 
remaining men bereft now of captain and first lieutenant, on 
to victory at Gaine’s Mills, ’closely followed by defeat at Sav- 
age Station and White Oak Swamps. 

It was in the fray at Frazier’s Farm that the brave life was 
extinguished. 

“Clare!” 

She turned a pair of bewildered eyes to the speaker. 

“Where have your thoughts been straying for the past 
hour? you have hardly uttered "a word since we left the 
Springs.” 

“To my father’s grave over yonder,” indicating the east 


80 


PASSION PAST. 


with a motion of her head. “I have been living over the 
battles in which he so bravely fought and died,” she whispered 
brokenly. 

“Poor Louis! But dear, so many years have passed since 
those days,” hardly knowing how to deal with such a nature. 

“They seem very near to-day when but a few miles from 
his. unmarked grave,” the great, dark eyes growing misty, as 
she went on — “I can see Doctor Wilcox now as he came to 
tell us how he died, although I could not then understand the 
depths of such a sorrow. I stood at Mamma’s knee with my 
head on her shoulder, my childish eyes dazzled by his uniform 
of green and gray. He brought her some little keepsakes — a 
silver watch and chain, a ring and our pictures with a great 
blood stain on it. His brave life went out with the whisper:” 

“Tell Alice how I died and that my last thought was of my 
loved ones,” so said the doctor while Mamma’s tears fell 
thick and fast upon the trinkets in her hands and I wondered 
vaguely why poor Papa should be killed by those wicked 
men.” 

Though her own heart beat in sympathy, Lizzie tried to 
turn the girl’s thoughts from such gloomy retrospect into a 
more healthy channel. 

“Our hearts are not made of stone, Clare; but for the sake 
of the living we try to let the dead past bury its dead. I 
have hardly seen you smile since I came to see you. Do not 
allow yourself to become a hypochondriac for your mother’s 
sake. With a mind so diseased one can not hope for phys- 
ical restoration, and I am so anxious to have you get all the 
good possible out of this visit. Now look out upon that glo- 
rious sunset, and turn your thoughts to the sea voyage which 
will benefit you so much; that’s a dear. In a day or two we 
shall be at home with Charlie and the baby, and there will be 
Douglas. I want you to know him, Clare.” 

“I had forgotten his very existence.” 

“I do not believe there is a spark of romance in you, 
Clare.” 


PASSION PAST. 


81 


“If there ever was any it has burned out long ago,” the 
girl answered bitterly. 

Mrs. Kinne felt many misgivings looking into the gloomy, 
skeptical face, but she hoped that the influences of her own 
cheerful home would result in some good to the invalid. 


CHAPTER XII. 


“I am sure Clare you are hungry enough for supper and 
tired enough for bed,” Lizzie said as the two followed a ser- 
vant to a room on the second floor of the hotel in Richmond, 
where they expected to spend the night. 

“As I am such a novice at traveling, I am rather tired,” 
the girl admitted divesting herself of her heavy wrap and 
sinking into an easy chair near the window, looking out upon 
the James river. “How pleasant this room and lovely the 
view after that stuffy coach! Do look out here cousin!” 

“I think you’ll find supper and bed far more pleasant and 
lovely,” smiling down on the other. “Yes, our supper 
we shall take in here, if you please, as the young lady will not 
care to go down to-night, ” to the servant who stood awaiting 
further orders. 

“What a prosaic female you are, Lizzie, to prefer either to 
this southern view of the moonbeams dancing on the water.” 

“You can not grow fat with moonbeams for a diet so let us 
proceed at once to satisfy the demands of the inner woman. 
One thing I shall expect you to find in our strong, bracing 
climate, and that is a healthy appetite.” 

And as a precursor of the coming appetite the girl did pro- 
ceed to do justice to the viands spread upon the little round 
table before her. 

On arising the following morning, Lizzie was glad to find 
Clare in a much better frame of mind, and in the bustle and 
confusion of going aboard the steamer, just starting on its 
usual trip to Chesapeake Bay, all traces of gloom had, for a 
timejit least, disappeared from her face. 


PASSION PAST. 


83 


For a while she enjoyed the novelty, the puffing and blow- 
ing of the great engine propelling the steamer along, the lazy 
indolence of the passengers, even the crying baby and the 
blushing couple without which no crowd is complete — the 
pretty bride, with her new assumption of married dig- 
nity, though plainly showing the clinging, vine-like tenden- 
cies, while the bridegroom evinced tendencies just as unmis- 
takable for being clung to. 

At last a cynical smile swept over her face as she turned to 
her cousin who was saying : 

U A penny for your thoughts, Clare.” 

“I have been watching those poor, soft, deluded things, 
Lizzie. They are now seated upon the highest pinnacle of 
human bliss, their souls breathing but a single thought, and 
I’ll risk the assertion that in six months they will both have 
concluded that marriage is a failure.” 

“You are young to have reached such depths in philosoph- 
ical lore; but why not have those young people go on, their 
love growing stronger each year, instead of having every- 
thing turn out so unhappily for them. Why so ready to 
accept the unpleasant things of life?” 

But Clare was again falling into one of her perverse moods 
and looked incredulous. 

U I can not understand Clare, why this cynicism comes so 
readily to a girl of your age. You impress me with the 
thought that some blighting frost has fallen upon you, destroy- 
ing all natural vegetation of the heart. What a strange 
anomaly you are child! Surely such can not be the result of 
your mother’s teachings, who seems to be one of the wisest 
and best of mothers. ” 

“Yes, the very wisest and gentlest,” repeated the other, a 
softer expression for a moment taking the place of the old 
hard look. 

“Ah, that tiny smile! What a little stray waif it is dear! 
Let it become fixed and warm up that wan little face.” Said 
her cousin touching with tender caressing fingers the sensitive 
lips. “Why Clare,” She continued playfully, “it reminds 


84 


PASSION PAST. 


me of that bright little sunbeam trying to throw its life giv 
ing warmth upon the ice bound earth. 

“How desolate winter makes everything,” she grumbled. 
“Just see how it has stripped the trees of their verdure and 
closed up all the fissures and streams.” 

“Don’t quarrel with nature, child, but abide by the dic- 
tates of general laws. Our invigorating winter is but one of 
its phases and just as necessary as summer.” 

; 4 A very disagreeable phase to those exposed to its ravages. 
Give me the more pleasant ones and let those who love the 
unpleasant phases have them. ” 

“I believe you are determined not to enjoy any of its 
phases, Clare, the way you nourish those morbid fancies and 
allow them to crowd out the bright and beautiful ones natural 
to youth. You are far too sensible to give yourself up 
to the dominion of such a disagreeable hallucination. ” 

And to her chagrin and surprise the plain spoken lady 
arose and left her to her own unenviable thoughts. 

“1 suppose I do try her patience by ail this useless repin- 
ing,” she said to herself, her conscience beginning to awaken. 
“Yes, Clare Fontaine, I am growing ashamed of you for such 
a requital for all her kindness to you. Let Horace Wood- 
land pass out of your life until the right time comes for re- 
venge, for it will come, it may be years, possibly only 
months, but it must come. In the meantime ask her pardon 
for your base ingratitude,” which she accordingly did, for to 
resolve a thing was to execute, with Clare. 

It is impossible, with one blow, to break off the shackles 
with which old habits bind us, and it will but weary the read- 
ers to go on with Clare through a transition necessarily 
gradual and difficult. Though, for all her efforts, she did 
not break the shackles. She merely deluded herself into a 
false security, losing sight of the fact that a desire for 
better, higher things must overcome the baser one for revenge 
upon Horace Woodland. 

But in the two or three days that followed she proved her- 
self such a bright, intelligent companion, that her cousin 
wondered at the matamorphosis and hoped sincerely the 


PASSION PAST. 


85 


happy change was permanent. Indeed, she believed it would 
prove to be so. 

But those knowing Clare better would have known how 
false was such sophistry. She but lacked the opportunity; 
and it soon came in a manner so strange and unlooked for 
that often in after years she felt as if some satanic agency 
must have played into her hands. 

It was in this way: 

Upon entering the crowded coach of the N. Y. & New 
Haven, the cousins were obliged to take separate seats for 
the time being. 

“1 am afraid, dear, it cannot be helped just now,” said 
Mrs. Kinne ruefully, “but possibly the people will change 
about a little after awhile and we shall be able to gravitate 
toward one another. ” 

Clare seated herself beside a vinegary-faced old maid; 
such she felt her to be anyway, and drawing down her veil 
she turned to the window. Soon she heard the conductor 
taking up the tickets, and mechanically thrusting her hand into 
her traveling bag, she drew forth her own. Glancing care- 
lessly into the official’s face she almost fell from her seat to 
find, confronting herself — Clayton Hereford. 

Ah! where now is the wall of security with which she had 
environed herself? 

For an instant a puzzled look came into his own eyes as he 
encoutered those midnight ones lighting up the pale face of 
this young girl who could be no more than any other lady 
passenger. 

She saw he was attracted toward herself and she knew the 
reason why as her mind reverted to that night scarce three 
months ago, when her own face had been thrown out in bold 
relief in the moonlight. 

She watched him, as he spoke to each one of her fellow 
travellers, succeeding by a great effort in hiding her agita- 
tion and alarm, for she knew her cousin might come to her at 
any moment. She grew faint and dizzy with dread as the 
train sped on occasionally slacking up at wayside stations, 
putting off and taking on passengers. At last, as if to set 


86 


PASSION PAST. 


at rest any lingering doubt, she heard him accosted by an ac- 
quaintance sitting immediately across the aisle. 

“Well, hello Hereford! back on the road I see. Haven’t 
seen you for weeks, old boy.” 

“Returned a few days ago,” Hereford answered shortly. 
Evidently he did not feel sociably drawn toward his loquacious 
friend. 

“Yes, I heard you were doing up the lakes,” went on the 
other ignoring the brevity and gruffness, “Sit down here and 
tell me about it How much did you take in anyway?” 

Clare almost held her breath, fearing that his, Horace Wood- 
land’s, name might be spoken and reach her cousin’s ears. 

“I first made a flying trip across the State, then into the 
old English lady’s domains, but her majesty gave me such a 
chilly reception that I hurried down to Kingston and back to 
York state again with a frozen marrow.” 

“Why didn’t you go south Clay? Running off to the ice- 
bergs in that way, just in the beginning of winter, looks as if 
the devil were after you, pitchfork in hand.” 

“I believe he was after me Comstock,” was the moody 
reply, a look akin to anguish coming into the blue eyes that 
never seemed to meet the gaze of any one squarely. 

“Why Clay, ” running his own eyes over the boyish face 
and form, “you have been doing something to yourself. You 
look as if you have been holding communion with the devil 
over your own grave. Not going into consumption are you ?” 

“Not so bad as that 1 hope. I don’t take to the life of the 
poor cousin with sufficient avidity, I suppose.” 

“It is hard on us poor devils. A kindred feeling makes us 
wondrous kind you know. Oh yes. by the way Clay , I passed 
your cousin Ethel on the street the other day and if she didn’t 
cut me square, she did, by Jove! Deucedly handsome that 
girl is.” 

“I don’t doubt you deserved it all, and Ethel knows how 
to draw the line. ” 

“That accounts for the way she drew it lately, eh? Have 
heard you were all gone on her yourself. I suppose you were 
at the wedding?” 


PASSION PAST. 


87 


For answer the other glared at his tormentor which only 
provoked a boisterous laugh. 

u Ah, come down there with you Clay! None of that with 
me! Really did you see her off?” 

U I have told you I was in Canada, and now see here Comp. 
I shall be glad if you will mind your own business if you can 
conceive how the thing is done. ” 

“Entirely beyond me, Clay, much as I regret it. Well, 
there! it’s too sore to be teased any more,” patting him 
good-naturedly on the back. “I do hear though, the new 
cousin hails from the land of greybacks — 

“Richmond.” 

“Name?” 

“Woodland.” 

“Occupation?” 

“Minding his own business, I think. 

“So it seems — ha! ha! Orphan?” 

“I think he possesses -a noble papa, likewise a mamma. 
Anything more?” 

“Yes; has he a sister? What a panacea to wounded affec- 
tions a sister would prove!” 

“I’ll no more of you,” he replied, rising as the whistle 
announced a stopping place. 

Chuckling good naturedly the imperturbable Compstockput 
his hat in the rack above him, replaced it with a traveling 
cap and with an air of familiar curiosity looked about him. 

The feelings of the young lady coming under his gaze, 
could be more esily imagined than described. 

How different from her fancies touching this cousin! A 
railroad conductor! 

What should she do? for to allow this would-be assassin to 
go on all unconscious of her knowledge of the dark episode 
in his life, was simply impossible. 

Suddenly a whim seized her, mastering, for the time, 
all other fears. As a school girl she had possessed one gift, 
that of a caricaturist, the results of which had caused many a 
merry laugh among her school-mates. Assuring herself 
that Lizzie was engaged iu conversation with a nice old gen- 


88 


PASSION PAST. 


tleman in snowy hair and gold spectacles, and that Comstock, 
feeling that all efforts to work up a flirtation with herself 
had proven futile, had retired in disgust behind his paper, 
she drew forth from her traveling bag a pencil. 

But a scrap of paper she had not. What should she do? 
Give it up? Ah! one of these postal cards was just the thing! 
She took one from the few she had brought for the purpose 
of keeping her mother informed of her safety en route, and 
outlined on the blank side, an open locket, managing, notwith- 
standing the shaking of the coach, to draw two faces which 
would have done credit to Tom Nast himself. 

Beneath one she wrote the name of the young conductor, 
and under the other that of his cousin, Ethel. Then 
upon the adverse side she wrote the one name ever present in 
her thoughts, and congratulated herself on the gratifying 
results. Concealing the card under her cloak, she awaited an 
opportunity. She had nothing to fear, even if she were 
detected, but for the sake of the future, that peg upon 
which hung all her hopes, she wished to be cautious; so to 
achieve her purpose required dexterity and vigilance. 

At last her eyes fell upon the water cooler in an opposite 
corner, and she arose suddenly impelled by the pangs of thirst. 
Of cource the vinegary old maid had long ago withdrawn her- 
self from such close proximity to youth and beauty, thus 
leaving Clare the sole occupant of the seat. For an instant she 
steadied herself by grasping the back of Compstock’s seat from 
which a very un unstable snore at that moment issued, telling 
her that the young man was fast asleep. 

Attempting the difficult feat of walking gracefully through 
a coach running at the rate of forty or fifty miles an hour has 
always proven a failure. Clare's attempt began with a very 
inelegant lurch forward, which threw the card from her hand, 
landing it between a grip and overcoat confined by a strap at 
the very feet of the sleeping Compstock. 

Not waiting for further developments she staggered on, 
secured the drink and after exchanging a few words with 
Lizzie, returned to her seat. As is usually the way with the 
impulsive, no sooner was the caricature out of her hand than 


PASSION PAST. 


89 


she regretted what she had done. 

Burying her face behind her paper as if the elucidation of 
problems political, social and scientific were her one aim in 
life, she waited. 

1 ‘Bridgeport !” At last called out the conductor and then 
followed the usual exit and entrance of strangers. Comp- 
stock, awakened by the commotion and ready to resume his 
teasing, nodded invitingly to Hereford, who followed at the 
heels of two or three ladies, each one laden with the band 
box and bundle with which tradition has endowed her. 

“Bridgeport is it '4” was the tame beginning. 

u Yes, judging from your present looks, you must have 
been awake all night.” 

‘ ‘You possess one gift bestowed by your maternal ancestress 
for which you may forever bless her memory, and that is, a 
much to be envied guesser, Clay. 

See here boy, if I haven’t lately been sailing the daintiest 
little craft you ever saw. Time! what is it while gazing into a 
pair of grey eyes?” Beaming radiantly upon the other. 

“Look out Compstock! I am responsible for the moral 
reputation of my train, so for once remember you are in the 
presence of ladies.” 

At this half whispered admonition a pious old lady looked 
a degree more pious, the vinegary lady drew her virginal 
skirts more closely about her, and two pretty girls tittered 
bashfully. 

“You’re a bigger fool than 1 took you for, Hereford. 
Congratulate me, for Grey Eyes is gone on my red locks 
and solicits the pleasure of combing the same for the period 
of my natural life, ha! ha!” 

“Yes, I’d comb them. I can not conceive for my life what 
she sees in you.” 

“Red hair and winning ways, my dear boy. By the way, 
how far do you run? Northampton?” 

“Yes. Say, Compstock, you’re careless. You might get 
exposed,” pointing to the card which that instant caught his 
eye. 

“Why? I don’t understand. That’s not mine. Catch 


90 


PASSION PAST. 


me trusting my shady affairs to a postal card!” picking it up. 
“What is this, Hereford? I don’t understand head nor tail.” 

“You don’t for one moment deceive me, so you may as 
well own up. Great heavens!” his own eyes distended in 
consternation, “Horace Woodland!” 

“Who is he, Clay?” 

“Who is he?” he repeated, “ you have done this, Comp- 
stock; you needn’t deny it.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“Your joke is illy timed and illy chosen,” Hereford said, 
huskily. 

U I tell you I did not do it. Never heard of such a person. ” 

“And you mean to say this is not your work? I don’t be- 
lieve it;” looking searchingly into his companion’s eyes. 
Compstock was far too good natured to lose his temper, so re- 
plied lightly: 

“Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed 
Immortal life into her soul, 

Some evil spirit poured, ’tis said, 

One drop of doubt into the bowl.” 

Hereford, doubting no longer, flashed an anxious glance 
about him, his eyes again settling upon Compstock’s face. 

“Have you forgotten that Woodland is Ethel’s husband? 
This was undoubtedly meant for me. Look at those two 
faces!” he said almost in a whisper. 

“I follow you at last. Say, boy, there must be an enemy 
in camp who is this moment watching you, so be careful. 
Clay! see the artistic talent your unknown friend displays, 
will you? How indissolubly he has joined you two by that 
hinge! Pity he could not have managed your affairs in 
reality.” 

Hereford sank moodily back into his seat, his hand still 
clasping the obnoxious caricature, but his eyes alert and keen, 
were studying one by one the faces around him, as he mut- 
tered : 

“I’ll find out who has dared this insult.” 

“Say, Clay, not a bad looking girl that,” said Compstock 


92 


PASSION PAST. 


with a fling of his hand in Clare's direction. “What eyes! 
Wish I hadn’t been so confoundedly ready to accept Grey 
Eyes’ proposal last night. Wonder who she is? Seems to 
be traveling alone.” 

“What a cad you are, Comp! Ah!” for a full minute he 
sat gazing at the profile opposite. 

She seemed to be so thoroughly interested in the novel she 
held in her hand, as to be unconscious of their espionage, 
though not a word escaped her. 

“Poor brain! don’t tax it too heavily,” she heard the face- 
tious Compstock say at last, just as the other started to his 
feet with the exclamation: 

“I have it! It just came to me and I’ll act upon it at once. 

“An idea, Hereford? You overwhelm me, by Jove! Don’t 
let it get away. To think, after a fruitless search of twenty- 
two years, you should be rewarded at last. Plold it fast, my 
boy, hold it fast! Hold on and I’ll go too and have a smoke,” 
and a moment later his red head had passed out of her sight 
forever. 

Clare resolved to go at once to her cousin. 

“A whim has just seized me, Lizzie; will you humor it?” 
seating herself and laying her hand coaxingly upon that 
lady’s arm. 

“If I can, certainly. What is it?” surprised and anxious, 
as she saw the look of fear in the girl’s eyes — for, try as she 
might, she was fast losing all self-control. 

“That you do not mention our names while on this train. 
Believe me, Lizzie, my reason for asking this is neither 
trivial nor fanciful. Will you promise?” 

“I certainly hesitate about the propriety of such conceal- 
ment without some reason for doing as you ask,” her cousin 
replied, thoroughly perplexed. “Are you sure you should 
not tell me, Clare?” 

“I only ask that you will trust me, Lizzie. Promise me.” 

“Very well, then, with the reservation to keep my eyes 
and ears open in the interest of a certain young lady,” she 
agreed reluctantly, just as the conductor re-appeared and 
threw himself into a seat near by, thus bringing himself face to 


PASSION PAST. 


93 


face with her, in a position that he could catch every expres- 
sion as the light from the window fell upon her. 

Once she tried to meet his eyes unconcernedly and un- 
flinchingly, knowing that her cousin was also watching her. 
She felt a numbness creeping over her under the spell of the 
basilisk eyes. 

Lizzie’s voice, like some far-off sound, and a grip on her 
arm partially recalled her. 

“The young lady is ill, allow me to get a glass of water,” 
she heard the hateful voice over her. 

“You are very kind, I thank you very much.” 

“I am glad to be of any service, madam. I am accustomed 
to such cases as many persons are made ill by the train run- 
ning over the rough road,” he said blandly. 

Something in the mocking tones arrested any volubility on 
Lizzie’s part, and by this time Clare had recovered her 
scattered senses sufficiently to say quietly: 

“Thank you for the water, it has revived me. The jolting 
of the cars caused momentary nausea, as you say.” 

“I beg that you will not remind me of so trifling a service,” 
he said smiling pleasantly. “Is not this yours, madam ? The 
contents have all fallen out but I believe I’ve gathered them 
all up.” 

She threw up her hands with a little shriek, for in his own 
he held the contents of her traveling bag which in the con- 
fusion had fallen on the floor. On top of the package of 
papers and cards was one addressed to her mother. 

In spite of the agitation from which she was trying to free 
herself he went on in a mocking, speculative voice, his eyes 
upon the name: 

“Seeing that name reminds me that in passing through the 
baggage car just now I saw one much like it on a trunk 
destined for New Hampshire, no doubt one of the little 
coincidences one meets with in life. ” 

The insolence of the man’s tones was like the cut of a 
lash. 

“Send that man away cousin; send him away, or I shall 


94 


PASSION PAST. 


die,” implored the girl, faintly, and the elder lady turned 
upon him with flashing eyes: 

u How dare you, an employe of this road, annoy and insult 
a passenger as you have this lady today? I shall denounce 
you to your superiors as an unworthy officer, sir!” 

“I am sure Miss Fontaine will not permit it madam. 
Judging from her present appearance I feel certain she will 
not advise undue haste in making this little incident public. 
I am willing to trust all to her own sense of discretion. As I 
am near my destination, I will relieve you of my presence, 
ladies,” and with a polite bow he left them. 

“Clare,” spoke Mrs. Kinne, coldly, “I am sure that man’s 
hostile attitude is in some way connected with your strange 
request of a few minutes ago and you certainly owe me some 
explanation for the annoyance to which we have been sub- 
jected, or how am I to protect you from insult? To say that 
I have been unwise in making such a promise has now been 
proven.” 

“Don’t judge me too harshly, Lizzie, if 1 can not tell you 
why I have become an innocent victim to my own folly. I 
alone must bear the consequences.” 

“Of course, the secret is your’s to divulge or withhold, so 
being in the dark, as I am, I will take refuge in an old belief, 
to try and not judge too severely without understanding all 
the attending circumstances. I am very much puzzled why 
this conductor should hold the sword of Damocles over your 
head.” 

“You mistake in thinking it was any sensation of fear I 
felt,” she said quickly. “Indeed, you are, Lizzie,” she re- 
peated, at her cousin’s look of astonishment. 

“Why, Clare, he called you Miss Fontaine, as if exulting 
in having gained the very information you were so anxious 
to withhold.” 

She turned away a moment from the questioning eyes be- 
fore she could answer. 

“For all the aggressive spirit evinced by that man, I sol- 
emnly declare to you, Lizzie, I have not the least cause for 
fear. It proclaimed weakness on his part, instead. He is 


PASSION PAST. 


95 


indirectly connected with an unhappy secret of mine, and 
to-day 1 accidentally discovered who he is.” 

4 ‘I can not think you right nor wise in assuming, at your 
age, this unfortunate secret. ” 

44 To share it with another, even mamma, is impossible. It 
would trouble her without helping me.” 

4 4 You can not measure a mother’s love, nor hold yourself 
aloof from her sympathy Clare. It is always best to tell your 
mother ail,” the other urged. 

44 I cannot, I cannot! It would only bring shame to me and 
grief to her,” she answered sadly/ 

4 ‘Clare, I have always felt sure it is something more than 
illness and poverty that is breaking your heart. If you can- 
not tell her, cannot you tell me, I will sheild you, let it be 
whatever it may, for I am sure it is no guilty secret. ” 

The girl turned her eyes, now softened by unshed tears 
gratefully to the grave face. 

4 4 You are right in saying it is no guilty secret. When it 
becomes too heavy to be borne alone I’ll tell you: now the 
shame and humiliation would kill me. ” 

“Very well then, I will not press the subject further, but 
will wait your voluntary explanation. ” 

All this time Hereford sat in the smoking car considering 
in his own mind the strange event of the day, and reviewing 
his whole life from the happy days with Ethel at Woodlawn 
until the present. 

44 0f all strange adventures this meeting is the strangest,” 
he said to himself. 4 ‘To think I should lose the charm in 
that spot! and that girl watching me! Oh Ethel, my play- 
mate! my heart’s darling!” his face white and haggard, “I 
thought if Horace Woodland were removed you would turn 
to me again; to me whose heart was breaking for you. This 
girl’s actions shows that he recognized me: then, why this 
long silence? But now he has won her and her money, he 
may conclude to be magnanimous and not denounce me.” 

Further reverie was cut off by the sound of a signal, and 
soon Clare had the satisfaction of seeing a grave, middle aged 
man in blue enter the car in his stead. 


96 


PASSION PAST. 


“The next stopping place is home. I know yon are glad 
to hear it* Clare. I hope you will like Charlie. Charlie is a 
man with wonderful -resources, and I think a few hours with 
him will do much toward driving away the sharks that have 
followed in our wake ever since leaving Hollidale.” 

“I think I should like people of wonderful resources, and 
forewarned is forearmed.” 

‘ ‘And there is the baby and Douglas — the grandest young 
man I ever saw is Douglas Clare, a very Douglas, tender and 
true. ” 

“Why, Lizzie, your enthusiasm is taking you into the 
fields of poesy and your friend, your inspiration. Who and 
what is this wonderful person ? I hardly understand the re- 
lationship,” a trifle curious. 

“His mother and Charles’ were sisters, though both are 
dead, but there goes the whistle for Raymond,” and the next 
moment her nose was flattened against the window-pane, 
trying to catch a glimpse of her husband on the platform. 

She did like him when she saw his boyish, good-natured 
face and heard his cheer ry: 

“She is welcome, and I’m sure we’re glad to have her in 
the Hampshire hills,” when Lizzie said: “Charlie, this is 
Clare, who was such a little tot when you last saw her.” 

It has long been conceded that only through the profound 
study of human nature, through the less perverted concep- 
tions which come with mature reflection and after earnest 
psychological research, that we are able to judge animal or 
intellectual instincts of mind or character by a general survey 
of the external signs of mentality. Even then but few per- 
sons possess the marvelous intuition by which can be followed 
out the principles involved in such a classification of phreno- 
logical laws. 

As the analysis of the works of nature demonstrates beyond 
a doubt a divine power, and the greatest of these works 
being, to a certainty, man, it is obvious to even an ordinary 
mind, that this same divine power has cast no two of the 
many millions inhabiting the globe in the same intellectual 
mould, although fashioning them upon one general pattern as 


PASSION PAST. 


97 


to physioal structure. But a treatise on those abstract sci- 
ences is worthy the pen of a readier writer than that of the 
author, who will no longer dwell upon a subject that has 
always been infinitely fascinating, but in a few words will 
give her first impressions of Douglas Maitland, who is to 
play an important part in this story. 

Physically, he was tall, full six feet, strong and broad 
shouldered. His grey eyes grave and thoughtful, though at 
times a spirit of fun shone in them. In place of the bright 
wit and dashes of modern slang natural to Charlie, his speech 
showed refinement and culture. 

All over the fine physique were written the unerring signs 
of a strong temperament, tenacity of purpose, patience and 
perserverence to endure all things — a manly man in every 
way. 

Surely these were conflicting elements in the two natures 
Lizzie was bringing together to-night. Douglas, practical 
serene and sensible; a strong tower to the weak whom elderly 
ladies liked and children instinctively trusted; and Clare ro- 
mantic and impulsive, keenly alive to external influences, in- 
tense in emotion, forgetting the higher sentiments of her 
nature. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“ And how are you, cousin Douglas? I was disappointed 
when I didn’t see you with Charlie 

“The dear boy was unable to come owing to a cold con- 
tracted by keeping his mouth too widely distended during his 
last oratorical effort,” Charlie hastened to explain. 

‘ ‘I am glad you have come, Lizzie. I could not have borne 
with him much longer,” said his cousin, laughing, as he 
turned to acknowledge the introduction to Clare. 

“Charlie, what have you done with Bridget? I haven’t 
heard her voice yet* 1 hope you haven’t run her off,” his 
wife asked a moment later as she sat with her baby on her 
lap. 

“She is spending the night with her mother, who is ‘ailin’. ’ ” 
She left much love and said she wouldn’t fail to be on hand 
forninst the airly mornin’ to get breakfast.” 

“I’m glad to hear it and as it is something out of the usual 
order of things to attempt even small talk with any hope of 
success at three in the morning, I move that we try to get a 
few hours sleep. What say you, good people?” 

“I say such is my highest conception of human happiness,” 
assented the yawning Clare. 

“Yes, Bridget must not be defrauded out of her usual 
accoustic exercises of shouting up the back stairs: ‘An, its 
will ye be afther gittin’ up the day?’ How that female does 
love the sound of her own voice,” and with this from Charlie, 
they separated for the night, or the few remaining hours of 
it. 

Assembled around the breakfast table, all traces of dust and 


PASSION PAST. 


99 


travel removed, they formed a merry group. Douglas proved 
companionable and attentive, Charlie an effectual antidote to 
any fit of despondency into which Clare might otherwise 
have fallen; and the young mother, although chiefly engaged 
in the pleasing contemplation of the astonishing intellectual 
and physical progress made by the small boy in white, in her 
absence, did not neglect her duties as hostess, and thus the 
meal was enjoyed by all. Douglas had found a strange fas- 
cination in watching the dark foreign looking face opposite. 

“It is sad to have to tear oneself away from such a family,” 
said Charlie at last rising from the table, 4 ‘but an almost un- 
precedented thing has happened, we have landed a client, and 
I told my partner I would be at the office early. I leave my 
better half to entertain you two.” 

But the spirit of the housewife asserted itself with the 
closing of the door and she too arose, saying: 

“This I shall have to ask you to do for one another, for an 
hour or two, while I attempt the herculean task of bringing 
something like order out of chaos.” 

“Now Miss Fontaine,” was the laughing protest from 
Douglas; “1 ask you to bear witness to this gross injustice. 
Charlie and I performed that task yesterday in honor of your 
coming. The poor fellow said with the finishing touch: ‘I’m 
sure Lizzie will be delighted on finding everything in such 
nice order. Now, Mrs. Kinne, I demand a retraction!’ ” 

She surveyed for a minute the pretty breakfast room, while 
Clare cried: 

“I am sure you have been traduced, Mr. Maitland. I see 
nothing like chaos here, though feminine hands might soften 
things down a little.” 

“This room was left to Bridget,” he owned, “she offered 
to help with the others, but we wouldn’t allow it. Now what 
fault have you to find with them?” 

“Let us examine them. I am afraid Lizzie is not alto- 
gether fair.” There was still a doubtful look on that lady’s 
face as she paused inside the parlor door. 

“Possibly, I am not, though I certainly 'discern a few inno- 
vations peculiar to masculine taste: Arthur’s best hat and 


100 


PASSION PAST. 


shoes adorning the table formerly dedicated to that bust of 
Beethoven, while that immortal composer modestly seeks to 
hide himself under the table; then,” she went on severely, 
while the two young people were shaking with laughter, 
“why did I never realize before the fine effect of Arthur’s 
Sunday cloak as drapery for that engraving? That pair of 
Charlie’s shoes, too, throws such an air of home comfort over 
it all. No, dear, I have not been fair. ” 

U I feel quite crushed,” said Douglas dolefully, sinking 
into the nearest chair unmindful of the fact that the two 
ladies remained standing, “I felt many serious misgivings 
through it all that something was wrong, but Charlie was so 
sure.” 

“Restrain your tears, if possible, Mr. Maitland! don’t give 
way so and I promise to change the look of things,” the 
young girl said encouragingly. 

“Miss Fontaine,” he cried springing to his feet with sur- 
prising alacrity considering his inert condition of a moment 
before, “if there is one thing above all others that I desire to 
learn it is the mystery of housekeeping. Will you teach me?” 

“I know so little about it myself — .” she began doubtf ully. 

“Take me as far as you have gone and I can ask no more, 
for all life’s lessons begin so. No doubt the future Mrs. M, 
will go on with them should I ever become the happy pos- 
sessor of such a lady. Now where shall I begin?” 

c fc By giving to Lizzie those articles of wearing apparel and 
restoring to the immortal composer his original rights I 
think. ” 

Hearing the merry laughter of the two, Lizzie could hardly 
believe that one of them was the gloomy companion of that 
journey north. 

“Mr. Maitland,” at last said the girl a little wearily, “I 
think I must rest awhile now. You deserve much praise for 
the progress made this morning.” 

“You will continue the lessons, I hope, when you become 
stronger?” he said. 

“Perhaps — some other time,” feeling suddenly uncomforta- 
ble under the earnest look in the grey eyes, “but waiving a 


PASSION PAST. 101 

question which may be considered in the future, I think 1 will 
go to my room for awhile and write to my mother.” 

“And 1 too must write a letter to my bishop in reply to 
one received yesterday. I am about to enter a new field in 
southern Pennsylvania,” 

She paused for a moment on the threshold. “I almost envy 
one a busy useful life,” she said in a tone of regret, “Mine 
has been so useless and idle. 1 hope you may succeed in the 
one you have chosen. You say you are going to Pennsylva- 
nia ? That will bring you much nearer to my home in Holli- 
dale.” 

“May I hope — ” he began eagerly, then checked himself 
as the look of revulsion came into her face, “Forgive me for 
detaining you. Miss Fontaine.” 

“One may easily forgive graver faults, Mr. Maitland,” 
she said a trifle coldly, passing him and ascending the stairs. 

As the days glided along, Clare, for the first time in her 
life, was almost happy, everything was so different from the 
old days at Hollidale, not that the memory of her unrequited 
passion was dead, but here she found little time to indulge 
her hatred, for all, unconsciously, seemed to unite in helping 
her to forget it. In the still hours of the night when all alone 
the old fierce hatred would come back and often times she 
would fall asleep upon a pillow wet with tears. 

Then as she grew physically stronger, she was more able to 
bring into subjection a passion which the better side of her 
nature condemned as unwomanly. The Kinnes were very 
popular with the young poeple around them. They did not 
look upon innocent pleasures and amusements as a work of 
the devil, nor a moderate indulgence as indisputable evidence 
of total depravity. They knew that without them youth be- 
comes narrow and unnatural and scarcely a day passed with 
them which did not bring some enjoyment different from that 
of the day before. 

A few of the young people participating in music and 
games at home, followed by an evening at a neighbor’s 
house, the above named pastimes probably interspersed with 
a lively tune that never fails to bring a tingle into the heel 


102 


PASSION PAST. 


and toe of the soberest deacon. Douglas even, felt the tingle 
at times, but as he wisely kept the fact in his own — feet, the 
immoral influence was not widespread, for by way of penace 
while the dancing was going on, he would absent himself from 
the room. 

The snows that winter were frequent and heavy, and our 
two young friends were treated to several glorious sleigh 
rides; and where is the young American who is impervious 
to the exhilerating joy, or deaf to the jingling bells of that 
time-honored pastime, — be it in the little cushioned affairs of 
modern invention, loaded with fur-clad beaux and belles of 
the city, or the cumbersome combination of sled and wagon 
bed filled with straw and teeming with boisterous, laughing 
youth of “ye olden time.” 

Two-year-old Arthur was taking his afternoon nap, while 
near his crib, with her foot on the rocker, his mother sat 
with her needlework, when the door suddenly opened and 
Clare entered. 

4 T am glad you have come, dear. I was beginning to feel 
lonesome, with nothing but my own thoughts for company.” 

4 ‘I thought the boys were with you.” The “boys,” of 
course, meant Douglas and Charlie. 

“No, they are in Douglas’ room. You have been out for 
a walk?” 

44 Just to drop a letter into the box for mamma,” answered 
the girl gloomily, and Lizzie knew Clare was suffering from 
one of her fits of depression, which were gradually becoming 
more rare. 

4 ‘The white roses you brought from home are fast giving 
way to the red ones that show a determination to supplant 
them,” and with the instinct of her sex Clare glanced at the 
mirrow before replying: 

4 I am becoming distressingly healthy. I’ll soon look like 
a dairy maid.” 

“Clare, keep your eyes fixed upon the mirror one moment, 
now tell me, if you can, how strong healthy roses can take 


PASSION PAST. 


103 


firm root in such sickly looking soil as that. Those clouds 
surely indicate a storm.” 

“The storm has spent its fury 1 think.” 

“But left its traces I see. Get your work Clare, women 
can gossip so much more comfortably over their sewing.” 

“As if you know the first principles of the art,” sinking 
into the chair, “I think this is one of my blue days, and I 
didn’t sleep well last night.” 

“I hope your letter will not carry the contagion to the dear 
little mother. The spirit of the writer, whether cheerful or 
gloomy, is apt to show itself to a loved one through a letter.” 

“I tried to write cheerfully,” she said and for a moment 
Lizzie studied the young face on which had been left a touch 
of the sorrows and passions of youth, then she answered: 

“Your mother writes such pleasant letters it does one good 
to read them.” 

“I fear your theory must be faulty, for I’m certain mamma 
does not write as she feels, though, after all, there is an un- 
dercurrent of sadness in her letters.” 

“It is but natural that she should feel lonely without you, 
but to have you go back to her well and strong will repay her 
for any sacrifice.” 

“She is the most self-sacrificing mother in the world,” 
her voice growing husky. “Lizzie, since coming here I have 
had many hours for reflection and now look back with bitter 
regret on the old selfish days with her. But, after all, the 
school in which I learned my few lessons of life was not a 
pleasant one. ” 

“Possibly not so pleasant as one would like, but dear, 
where could you have found a better one than in such a home 
and with such a teacher as your mother, for the development 
of those traits of character for which we all love you? The 
time is come for you to reward your mother by being all she 
wishes you to be.” 

“The horizon of home has always seemed so low, the 
boundaries so narrow to one possessing such a keen zest for a 
broader, fuller life,” said the girl discontentedly. 

“Believe me, dear Clare, the broad, full life means doing 


104 


PASSION PAST. 


whatever our hands find to do, be it no more than cheerful 
assistance to your mother. I do not speak as the Pharisee, 
but as a daughter who also thinks with regret of the weary 
look and lines of care on the face of an over-indulgent 
mother. In reaching out longingly for the broader, fuller 
life, as you say, I did not notice my mother’s failing health.” 

“But every girl must have her dreams of a brighter 
future — 

“Certainly dear, they are as natural to youth as the air we 
breath. It is only when confronted by the stern realities of 
maturer years that we forget those dreams which in youth 
make the attainment of our hopes seem so easy. Then, one 
understands how the struggle with the difficulties of the 
present is but a means of preparation for the exigencies of 
the future which no one can hope to escape. ” 

For a while both were silent, each busy with her own 
thoughts; at last the young gpd said, her face settling into 
certain hard lines: 

“It is a long look ahead to imagine ones self at the other 
end of life aged and gray when one has but reached seventeen 
years. Our dreams and fancies come without volition.” 

“If this were not one of your blue days I would feel 
tempted to tell you some of the dreams and fancies that come 
to the sedate and middle aged, would you be offended?” asked 
Mrs. Kinne. 

“Offended? Why cousin, 1 thought you knew 7 me better. 
Something in your face tells me yours may be brighter ones 
. than have come to me lately, for of course the sedate and 
middle-aged person is yourself.” 

“I fear they are rather mixed,” she began with a smile. 
“Have you ever thought, Clare, how r we shall miss you and 
Douglas when our little circle is broken up ?” 

“It has been pleasant, but a satiety may not be good for any 
of us,” she replied, unconscious of the drift of her cousin’s 
words. 

“For your sake I am glad it has been so.” Again she hes- 
itated while into the girl’s face came suddenly a look of appre- 
hension. “After you return home, Clare, and recall the days 


PASSION PAST. 105 

spent with us 1 hope you will not forget one who has done 
much to make your visit enjoyable.” 

“As if the picuture could be complete with one figure left 
out,” she said, the color mounting to cheek and brow. 

“Has it never occurred to you,” the other went on, “what 
this parting may be to Douglas after having spent several 
weeks with a girl as lovely as yourself?” 

“Oh, Lizzie!” cried Clare, starting up, the blood all leaving 
aer face, “do not say it, do not! 1 cannot bear it.” 

“I have not said anything to agitate you thus. You surely 
have not been so blind that you could not see Douglas’ admi- 
ration for you; and admiration you know, may ripen into a 
warmer passion.” 

“You are mistaken in thinking I could inspire anything of 
the kind. In the first place, the thought is most repulsive to 
me, and I am too worldly to suit a man of his Christian prin- 
ciples.” 

“I think you undervalue yourself, dear. Your mother 
has instilled in you none but the strongest principles of virtue 
and honor and I know she would approve of Douglas in 
every way.” 

“Lizzie, I have quite made up my mind never to marry.” 

“There are times when all young girls say the same thing, 
in spite of the dreams and fancies discussed just now,” the 
other answered, smiling. 

“But they have not vowed by a dead father’s memory — all 
hopes of heaven!” cried the girl, all e ffort at restraint break- 
ing down at last. Her voice was husky, and her slender 
form shook with emotion. 

“Clare! Clare! What blasphemy is this?” 

For answer she sank again into the chair, covering her agi- 
tated face with her hands. 

“Clare, dear child,” said the other, “I knew your nature 
possessed strong elements of passion, but I suspected nothing 
like this. What has happened to you. What phantom is 
following you?” 

“I can not tell you; I can not.” 

“Tell me this, Clare, is it the secret you spoke of once be- 


106 


PASSION PAST. 


fore? There are hidden recesses in the heart of every girl 
where lie hallowed memories too sacred for curious eyes; 
but do not exaggerate this figment of an excited imag- 
ination into an evil,” she continued, when the other did not 
answer. “Tell me child, what it is.” 

U I can not, Lizzie, forgive me.” 

“Very well, then. I regret this unpleasant conversation 
which has done no good and may spoil the remainder of your 
visit.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


For awhile the elder lady plied her needle in silence, wait- 
ing until the storm sweeping over the girl’s soul had spent 
itself. 

“Lizzie!” she at last said humbly, as she stood before her, 
“I am sorry for the things I have said. Can you forgive 
me?” 

‘ ‘My dear child, there is nothing to forgive. I am afraid 
that you are being tossed about upon the waves of doubt and 
despair. If I could but rescue you from the danger. I 
thought you a child; to-day I discover a woman possessing 
capabilities for suffering which I never suspected. You need 
your mother, dear. I beg that you will trust her.” 

U I can not grieve her so. I can, at least, spare her the 
knowledge that would only bring her pain.” 

“Ah, child, the eyes of a loving mother are keen. Now just 
a word about Douglas, Clare, and we will drop the subject 
forever if you wish. I would not have you do him the irre- 
parable wrong of marrying him unless you could love him. 
Any hopes of conjugal felicity through such a marriage, like 
sin purchased happiness, would turn to ashes on your lips; 
yet, for such a nature as yours, there is no haven so secure as 
a good man’s name and love.” 

“You are right Lizzie in saying I should not marry with- 
out love, and I know the capabilities of my own heart too 
well,” she said as the spectre from that grave of buried hopes 
seemed to arise before her. 

“Of course you know best dear.” 

“I think Lizzie I will go to my room for a little while. 


108 


PASSION PAST. 


May I kiss little Arthur just once? I’ll not wake him.” 

“What a strange girl she is!” thought the mother leaning 
over to wipe off a tear left glistening on the baby face. 

“For such a nature, with no clearly defined object in life, 
what chance of happiness can the future hold ? What terrible 
thing could have come into the child’s life that her mother 
could not know?” 

Clare seated herself at the writing desk and drew the paper 
before her. 

“Yes I’ll do it,” she whispered to herself, dipping the pen 
into the ink, “I have intended to do it ever since I came, I 
can’t bear that he should rest longer behind this false security 
of silence.” When she finished, her letter was without ad- 
dress or signature. 

“Measuring your memory by my own, I don’t think you 
can have forgotten our last parting. This hope is the peg 
upon which I hang my plea for writing to you now. After 
my recovery from a severe illness, I found that my mother 
had been unwillingly made the object of your charity to the 
amount of three hundred dollars, and not knowing your ad- 
dress she was unable to return this money or write and thank 
you for it. 

Before I knew you my life was purposeless — existence, 
a puzzle. Now I have an object — to repay you.” 

“There! I feel better,” she muttered, folding and sealing it. 
“My overcharged feelings demanded a vent and have found 
it through these few lines to him. I shall ask Douglas to 
mail it on his way to Pennsylvania. ” 

“Is this but one more step in the descent?” she asked her- 
self, sadly, as she looked upon the name of the one who had 
revealed to her a knowledge of her own capacity for suffering. 

“If I feel envious of any one, it is the one who possesses a 
heart incapable of passion of any kind,” she went on as she 
arose, and with her hands clasped above her head, she walked 
about the room. “Yes, of an}^ kind — for parents, friends, 
lover — or even God! And only seventeen! with possibly a 
half century yet to live! and in all those years, not for one 
moment able to blot out the memory of that one night! Oh, 


PASSION PAST. 


109 


the awful shame of it all! Mamma! mamma! I believe I am 
homesick, after all, and want you!” 

She threw herself into a chair and taking up a book she 
tried to read, but the restless mood made it impossible, 
especially when she saw the book was identical with one she 
had once read aloud to Horace Woodland. A fit of ungov- 
ernable fury seized her, and she dashed it across the room, 
unmindful of the fact that it lay torn apart, a mute emblem 
of her own broken and ruined life. 

Yet, when she took her seat at the tea table a few minutes 
later, none knew, not even Lizzie, of the bitter conflict 
through which her soul had passed. 

Christmas eve, with all its Christmas cheer and festivities, 
had come, and up in Douglas’ room he and Charlie were en- 
joying that feast of reason and flow of soul common to antag- 
onistic temperaments. 

“It was no doubt the affinity of soul between us that let me 
into the little secret, or scheme, and I suppose I ought to be 
kicked for telling it though, our views are identical — Lizzie’s 
and mine,” Charlie was saying as the big blue eyes turned 
from the well-shaped foot resting against the mantel to the 
slightly flushed face of his cousin. 

“And — I agree with both.” 

“Then why not fall into line at once instead of squirming 
and wriggling the way you do?” 

“How poetical your similies always are, Charlie! Fall into 
line, you say ? Experience has taught you, has it not, that 
one alone cannot effect an issue of this kind.” 

“Poor old fellow! That maidenly blush betrays you as 
truly as the drop of negro blood in the stiffening fingers of 
the corpse when between you and the light. ” 

“Charlie, you should have studied the sciences instead of 
throwing away such gifts on a profession within the reach of 
the dullest intellect.” 

“All a mistake, my dear coz., for owing to the wonderful 
development of the encephalon, in early life it changed into 
something on the porcelain order about the time for doffing 
knee breeches and thereby became the object of the most 


110 


PASSION PAST. 


anxious maternal solicitude. The consequence was, 1 never 
dared to tax it with anything stronger than Blackstone.” 

A boisterous laugh followed this attempt at witticism; but 
laughing was infectious this holiday when both felt unusually 
free from life’s cares. 

u But to go back to Clare, Douglas; do you know her mother 
is in a precarious condition, and if she were to die the daugh- 
ter would be left alone in the world?” 

“Even then it would bean exceptional man who could ex- 
pect to be made more than a friend without any encourage- 
ment whatever. There is an air about her that keeps one at 
a distance.” 

“Do you want Clare to fling herself at your head, sir ? 
Were your penetration as keen as your face is ugly you would 
see that any girl worth having, has that same air about her; 
though, I will say this: a young man can get any girl he sets 
his heart upon if he goes about it in the right way.” 

“Something in Clare’s face seems to say that she has out- 
lived her romance and I have thought at times that I should 
never marry after having chosen the life I have — ” 

“Such asceticism makes me tired,” drawled Charlie scorn- 
fully, “but don’t for a moment delude yourself into fancied 
subservience to a ruling principle, for whenever it comes to 
a tussle between a pretty girl and that, the latter will with- 
draw into the shade every time.” 

“It is indelicate to use this young lady’s name in such a 
frivolous speculation, Charlie, so let us agree to disagree and 
go down where the others are.” 

“Peace on earth! Good will to man!” rang out the church 
bells on the cold, crisp air the following morning. Inside the 
home of the Kinne’s all was warmth and enjoyment with its 
typical New England dinner. 

The festal day was to end with a sleigh ride as several inches 
of snow had fallen the previous night, and a beautiful crust 
had formed over it. 

“Charlie!” called out Clare, from her post near the window, 
where she had stood for several minutes, looking out upon the 
wintry scene. “Charlie, I say, come here one moment.” 


PASSION PAST. 


Ill 


He dragged himself lazily from his easy chair before the 
fire to obey her. 

u If you can, will you please tell me what that is, Charlie?” 
she asked in a tragic whisper. 

“Country cousins, 1 think; Cousin Zeph and Cousin Belinda 
from ‘Yarrer Holler,” I do believe,” a look of comical dis- 
may in his blue eyes. 

Coming up the street toward the gate was one of the sleds 
already mentioned and seated on a board across the “bed” 
were two young people while the tiny bells around the necks 
of the two stout horses kept up a merry jingle. 

“But, seriously, Charlie, who can they be? They are 
surely coming here. ” A ray of light suddenly penetrated 
his brain. 

“Now, I see what it means, child. Some one has told them 
of Douglas and they are coming here to get the knot tied.” 

“Knot tied? I fail to understand.” 

“Connubial knot, I mean, you goose. Say! look at that 
bridal array, won’t you?” 

“We’re to have a wedding and Douglas will officiate. Do 
see the mittens, Charlie! they’re all just alike. Don’t laugh! 
They’re knocking. They don’t know what the door bell is.” 

Charlie, all smiles, opened the door to admit the two. They 
stood in bashful attitude on the step, the man a little in the 
rear. For a moment they stood, either unable to break the 
embarrassing silence, when Charlie said for the second time: 

“It is too cold to stand outside. Will you come in?” 

“Rachael, you ast fur him, won’t you?” blurted out the 
youth, at last. 

“Ast ’im yerself, Hiram! Ef I’m wuth anything to ye, 
I’m surely wuth that much.” 

“Yer wuth more to me than the gole mines o’ Californy, 
ole gal, an’ I guess I kin ast,” he said stoutly. 

“No, I’ll do it, Hiram. I didn’t ’low to hurt yer feelings.” 

“Ef ye only would,” again falling back. 

“We was told by the woman over at yan house, there be a 
parson livin’ here, be you him?” 

“I am not him, but if you will take these chairs I will call 


112 


PASSION PAST. 


him clown,” hospitably drawing the chairs before the fire. 

“We don’t keer if we do as we’ve rid quite a spell,” 
assented the girl suiting the action to the word. “Be n’t ye 
cold, Hiram?” 

“Law no! I’m jist as hot as a snake. It stan’s to reason 
though, a little teenty thing like you ’d git cold a heap 
quicker’n a great hulks like me, I’ll take a cheer to keep ye 
comp’ny anyhow.” 

In the “little teenty thing” the cousins saw a young 
woman apparently twenty years of age, with a tall, spare 
figure, clad in a dress of dark blue homespun; over this was 
an immense white apron trimmed with knitted cotton lace 
and starched and ironed to such a degree of stiffness and 
glossiness that the two could almost see their own forms 
reflected therein. 

It was in maturer years Rachael took to plaids. Her 
hands were encased with blue yarn mittens while a nubia of 
snowy wool covered her thin sandy hair. Both had no doubt 
been knitted by her own hands for this happy day. The face 
was plain with a sharpness of nose and lips that in later years 
became so marked. 

From this rapid inventory the eyes of the cousins passed to 
the young man, and saw a good natured, honest face, a form 
heavy and broad-shouldered. 

At last Clare said to the girl: 

“May I help you remove your wraps?” 

“Thank ’ee, ma’am; I don’t keer ef I do; just the shawl an’ 
nuby. The mittens I’ll put in my pocket es sich teenty things 
is so easy to git lost,” handing the red and blue plaid shawl 
and head covering to Clare, and consigning to a capacious 
pocket in her dress the last named articles. “Hiram! what- 
ever be ye a blushin’ so about? Don't look as if ye’d been 
stealin’ somethin’.” 

“Now, Rachael, don’t it look kinder that way, es ef I hed, 
yer know? te! he! he!” 

“I’d set up and show my raisin, Hiram,” broke in Rachael, 
severely. “Ef yer mean its me ye’ve bin stealin’, ye’re 
smart enough to know its the lean horse thet gits thar with 


PASSION TAST. 


113 


the biggest load. Ef ye hadn’t, ye’d never ast me to hed ye. ” 

“Now, Rachael!” in his good-natured, drawling voice, 
“don’t be so hard on a feller, fur ye know I’ve always had a 
hankerin’ arter ye, an’ when a feller commences to hanker, 
he don’t stop to calkilate nor weigh the load the lean boss’ll 
carry. ’ 

“You are right, sir; the girl we men hanker for is the girl 
for us,” said Charlie. 

4 4 Time is passin’,” observed Hiram, suddenly aware that 
the sun was three hours past his zenith. 

44 An’ all the dinner’ll spile,” from the more practical 
Rachael, 44 an’ its jest es well to hev it over, eh Hiram?” 

“Uv course; the wuss a thing is, the better to git it over 
quick, ” acquiesced the bashful Hiram. 

4 "Here’s the parson!” called out Charlie as that gentleman 
appeared in the doorway, at sight of whom Hiram suddenly 
collapsed behind the blushing bride. 

“You’ll talk to him, Rachael?” 

4 4 Well, ef I ever!” she cried, resentfully, at this -cowardly 
shrinking from assuming the prerogatives of his sex on the 
part of her unhero-like lover. 

“Ye know, Rachael, yer so much tungier’n me,” he said 
weakly. 

“I am sartainly glad to know I be, an’ hope ye’ll not for- 
git it, never,” was the scathing reply, as she turned to the 
young minister. 

44 Ye see, parson,” she began, toying bashfully with the 
apron strings that lay in her lap, “his gran’ma an’ mine was 
cousins, ’though it don’t make us no kin to speak uv, an’ his 
ma brung me up an’ she died last week, — you kin see he’s 
wearin’ a mournin’ hat band fur her now, an’ uv course, bein’ 
es she died, we couldn’t go on livin’ es we hed bin livin’, an’ 
jist made up our minds nu thin’ could be done but git mar 
ried, ’specially es we’d hed a hankerin’ fur two or three 
year.” 

4 ‘Marriage was an absojute necessity,” asserted Charlie, 


114 


PASSION PAST. 


“and I am sure my cousin is prepared to do the work in his 
finest style. ” 

And ten minutes later, ali, including Lizzie and Bridget, 
having assembled, Douglas did proceed to make the two hus- 
band and wife. 

“I’m so much obleeged to ye for what ye’ve done fur 
Hiram an’ me, parson,” said the bride, clasping his hand 
gratefully, “an’ ef ye’ll give me my marriage lines — my stif- 
cut, ye know, we’ll not ast no more uv ye.” And though the 
studied gravity of the officiating parson was nearly upset by 
this confidential aside, the coveted lines were soon reposing in 
the very bottom of the capacious pocket. 

“I knit ’em myself Miss,” she whispered to Clare, drawing 
on her bony hands the blue mittens, “an’ I don’t mind sayin’ 
to ye a purpose fur this, an 1 1 knit Hiram’s, likewise. The 
store keeper where he bought the close he hes on, tole ’m it 
was a new fangle to hev mittens same’s the bride’s, so es 
there wus plenty o’ wool on han’ ready fur the dye pot, I 
thought I might es well save that much. ” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“Miss Thornton, ’ faintly protested the happy groom, after 
having patiently watched the satisfactory adjustment of the 
wraps about the head and shoulders of his better half, “its 
more’n likely thet dinner’ll all be et up, an’ I feel ruther 
holler.” 

“Humph! ye must be feelin’ a little tungier’n ye did,” 
transfixing him into silence with her light eye, “an’ remem- 
ber, my name’s Rachael Gibsin — till we git home, at least.” 

“It’s best to begin as you expect to end. Now the most 
deplorable mistake of her life is that she didn’t begin so with 
me,” said Charlie, pointing to his wife, who ignoring him, 
turned to Rachael, saying: 

“If you will wait one moment, I will prepare refresh- 
ments. ’ ’ 

“Why, we couldn’t think uv sich a thing es eatin’ our wed- 
in’ dinner away from home, much obliged all the same. The 
nabors hes all gethered in an’ waitin’ fur us, an’ there’s 
enough cooked fur a dozen besides — say! what’s to hender all 
uv ye from jumpin’ into the big sleigh an’ goin’ home with us? 
It’s only six mile. Wy, I swan, ef Hiram wasn’t mournin’ 
fur his ma we’d go in fur a reg’lar frolic to-night,” looking 
regretful as this impediment suddenly presented itself, “but 
ye kin at least go out an hev supper with us. ” 

“Just the thing, let us go, Charles,” whispered Clare, pull- 
ing his coat sleeve. 

“We had intended having a sleigh ride,” he deliberated, 
“you wouldn’t like to wait for us to get out our own sleigh — 
a half hour perhaps?” 


116 


PASSION PAST. 


“Not a half minute,” objected the groom, “an’ what’s to 
hender as, Rachael says, to yer jist pilin’ in promiscuous in 
this old wagon bed? it’ll hold all uv ye.” 

“But how could we get home again?” demurred Lizzie. 

“I tell ye what me an’ Hiram ’ll do,” a happy thought strik- 
ing the bride, “The nights is light an’ him an’ me’ll hev ye 
home by ten if ye say so.” 

“But how?” 

“Him an’ me’ll bring ye home in the sleigh, uv course.” 

“We have a baby, we must take him.” 

“Uv course, plenty uv milk in the milk house. This lady’ll 
come, too? with a nod in Bridget’s direction. 

“If ye promise to hev me back in me bed forninst tin 
o’clock,” assented that “lady” stiffly. 

“Ef it jest wasn’t fur Hiram’s ma, how we could cut up 
to-night,” sighed the bride, always ready to quarrel with 
fate. 

4 ‘Her being my mother that I loved, it stans to reason I 
can’t feel as much like euttin’ up es ye all do,” a mist coming 
into the honest blue eyes that he awkwardly tried to wipe 
away with his coat sleeve.” 

“Poor feller!” wifely affection for a moment asserting itself, 
“ye’ll dirty up yer coat sleeve. I’m sorry fur ye Hiram an’ 
after to-night I promise to help ye mourn fur yer ma. 
There, shet up yer cryin’ now, do ! Where’s yer handkercher 
Hiram? wipe yer eyes on it an’ don’t spile yer new coat.” 

And by the time she had made her new lord and master 
presentable the merry party was ready to start on their 
“frolic.” But the incidents of that merry night we shall not 
attempt to give in full. In after years they all came up 
before Clare Fontaine who then little suspected the unhappy 
circumstances under which she would next visit the little 
whitewashed cottage. 

“Here parson!” said the bride in a shrill whisper when 
they parted at Charlie’s door, “jist put thet chunk o’ cake 
under yer piller to-night an’ ye’ll dream uv — the parson’s 
wife thet’s to be, anybody with jist one eye kin tell who 
she’ll ; be.” 


PASSION PAST. 


117 


“Now Mrs. Thornton!” Douglas laughingly protested, 
“1 am sure I do not wear my heart upon my coat sleeve in 
that way.” 

“Well, seein’s believin’ an’ ye might go a hull day’s travel 
an’ not find a gal as purty. Come Hiram, let’s go. ” 

It was not the young “parson” who came to Clare in the 
frightful dreams of that night, traceable probably to the roast 
turkey and rich pastry of that country wedding supper; but 
rather a prognostication of future destiny. There are not 
many of us wholly superior to the secret fancies which incline 
us to grasp at “signs” and “presentments” of good and evil 
as a means by which to settle many of the problems of life 
which confront us. 

“I feel as if something were about to happen,” was Clare’s 
first thought on awakening the following morning. For sev- 
eral moments she lay trying to recall to mind some face or 
form from the medley of ghostly visitants. As the mists 
cleared away she remembered having in vain tried to escape 
some imminent and fearful peril: In so doing, she seemed 
to be in the midst of running trains and shrieking whistles — 
rushing on — on over fields of tangled grass and wild flowers, 
yet through it all alive to the fact that her flight was being im- 
peded by the weight of a heavy child she carried in her arms. 
Ah yes! now for the first time the object seemed familiar, for on 
looking do wn at the face of the sleeping babe, she saw it bore 
a striking resemblance to Horace Woodland. 

“It’s more’n likely ye et too much supper,” would have 
been the solution of uncle Hiram of later years, and: “It 
stan’s to reason folks havin’ sich bad dreams hes done sun- 
thin’,” aunt Rachael would have supplemented, no doubt. 

But Clare being denied any such elucidations by oracles so 
wise, could neither shake off nor account for the feeling of 
depression under which she entered the breakfast room where 
she found Charlie hilarious over the events of that memorable 
wedding night. 

“What especial plans have you, good people, for to-day?” 
asked Charlie rising from the table at the close of the meal. 


118 


PASSION PAST. 


“Work, never ceasing work!” from his wife as she ruefully 
surveyed the debris from yesterday’s dissipation. 

“And you? Why Clare! you look as if you had been to a 
funeral instead of a wedding; by the way, what did you dream 
last night?” 

“Everything horrible!” with a little shiver. 

“I heard that parting shot from the bride last night, 
Douglas. Did her forecast of angel visitants materialize, 
old boy?” and Douglas, never at his best under badinage and 
ridicule, colored like a school girl, as he glanced at the dark 
face opposite. 

“I believe the sensation of spending the day and evening at 
home would be pleasant as so few are left me,” he observed, 
ignoring the question. 

“Pleasant, yes, but hardly profitable to the bread winners 
who must work, so ta! ta!” 

They separated, Douglas to write letters in his own room, 
the young matron about household duties and Clare to put on 
hat and cloak, hoping a walk in the crisp morning air would 
help to dispel the memory of the dreams of the night before; 
just a little time alone, a moment’s freedom in the fresh air 
for reflection. 

She walked on until she came to the little bridge spanning 
the narrow stream mentioned in a former chapter; here she 
paused for a moment, looking down with eyes that saw not, 
on its snow covered banks. 

“It is one of my blue days which I suppose must run its 
length,” she muttered half aloud. “Why must the horrid 
dream be associated with an accidental visit to that house? 
Those simple, ignorant, country louts.” 

Weary, cold and dissatisfied she turned to retrace her steps, 
still muttering in that half audible way: “And the child! 
That child! Whose was it with its features moulded in Hor- 
ace Woodland’s own image? Why did I bear it in my arms 
through all that frightful, tiresome journey? As I am get- 
ting no better by coming out I’ll return to the house and try 
the efficacy of work to effect what the cold has failed to do. 
If I were only with mamma! I am homesick! homesick!” She 


PASSION PAST. 


119 


cried oat in her wretchedness, “and I’m going home, for I 
can bear it no longer. Possibly mamma has heard of him,” 
and as if to put the resolution into immediate execution she 
walked rapidly to the house. 

“I cannot part from her without some definite hope of 
again seeing her. I cannot go to Pennsylvania without let- 
ting her see the things which fill my heart,” and Douglas 
paused in his restless walking up and down the room, at the 
window, through which he could see the object of his thoughts 
on her homeward return. 

u Ah, there she comes!” stooping to gathsr up the books 
brushed by the clerical coat-tails from a table near by. “God 
has said: 'It is not good for man to be alone,’ so in time this 
carnal love must come to each of us — and I shall speak to her 
to-day.” 

As Douglas said this he brushed off the glass with his hand 
some imaginary dust that seemed to obscure his physical 
vision, for the mail carrier was at the moment ascending the 
front steps. 

“O, Tare! I dot ’ou ’etter! I dot ’ou ’etter!” shouted little 
Arthur, scampering to the door at the postman’s ring and 
just in time to meet Douglas. 

“Oh, you rogue! how do you know the letter is for Tare!” 

“W’y, ’tause!” answered the boy convincingly. 

“That should settle the question of ownership in the mind 
of the most skeptical, so take the young lady her property.” 

“And get a kiss in return, you darling!” cried the girl, 
who had been drawn to the spot by the noisy laughter. 
She took the letter, and, as every woman will, turned it over 
and over; first a puzzled frown, which gave way to a serious, 
anxious look, crossing her face. 

“I did think it was the one I have been expecting for sev- 
eral days from mamma. She was not so well when she last 
wrote — but it is not her writing. Oh Douglas!” sinking, pale 
and trembling into a chair. 

“Open the letter, Clare; that will set your doubts at rest,” 
he urged. 


120 


PASSION PAST. 


“There are no doubts, Douglas; the letter is from Doctor 
Wilcox and mamma is too ill to write.” 

u We hope not, Clare. May I call Lizzie?” a strange de- 
licious thrill stirring him, that in her trouble his was the first 
name she called. 

“First open and read it for me, Douglas. Don’t you see 
my hands are shaking so I cannot?” 

Stooping to whisper a word to the child who stood watch- 
ing “Tare” curiously he complied, after first satisfying him- 
self that the letter contained no fatal news. 

“Clare, My Dear Child:— I can no longer hide from you 
the fact that your mother is ill and needs you. She is in no 
critical danger and has the best of care; still, when you are 
once more with her you will feel glad of having sacrificed a 
few weeks of your visit. No doubt your cousin will accom- 
pany you as far as New York and put you safely on board the 
steamer, for it will be best for you to come that way. Now, 
my dear, trusting that you will be with us soon, 

I am yours affectionately, 

J. W. Wilcox. 

As he finished, Lizzie entered the room with Arthur cling- 
ing to her hand. 

“You wanted me, Douglas? What is it? seeing the look of 
pity on his face, which was bending over the trembling girl, 
and for an answer he put the letter into her hand. 

“I knew it! I have felt all morning that this was coming, 
that is why I could not stay in the house. Oh, mamma! I 
didn’t want to come but you persuaded me,” sobbed Clare. 

“The doctor’s letter is so unsatisfactory every way. He 
might have told you what ails your mother, at least — .” 

“It’s very vagueness tells me she is very ill. It is her heart, 
Lizzie, although she treated the matter so lightly when I 
begged her to tell me.” 

“We will hope not, dear,” putting her hand tenderly upon 
the bowed head. 


PASSION PAST. 


121 


“And. dear Clare,” spoke Douglas, for the first time, “try 
to feel this— that you will leave your dear mother in the 
hands of One whom she has always trusted — the One who 
never makes a mistake. Will you try to do this?” 

“In moments such as these, Douglas,” the words coming 
quickly and rebelliously, “it is not always easy to trust blindly 
in the simple faith of our fathers. In the past the thought 
has failed to give me comfort, and now when He is about to 
take the one remaining pleasure of my life, I cannot hope for 
it. If He spares my mother to me, then, I shall have some- 
thing for which to be thankful. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A look of infinite and indescribable pain crossed the fine 
aesthetic face; but knowing that she was hardly responsible 
for the outburst with this grief fresh upon her, he realized 
how futile expostulations at such a time would be. 

Her cousin, from past experience, realized it also, so hast- 
ened to say: 

“Leave Clare to me, Douglas, and you go down to Charlie’s 
office and walk home with him. Arrangements must at once 
be made for her to go home, and we can determine on noth- 
ing without him.” 

He complied at once, and seeing his troubled face she said, 
with a ring of pity in her voice: “Poor old boy! Clare, my 
child, do not give way; but, like a brave girl, try to remem- 
ber that for the dear little mother’s sake you must bear up 
and keep strong, for you know you must nurse her back to 
health again.” 

But she broke out with the cry: 

“I can not share such anticipations for the future. What 
has life been for us but a hopeless struggle anyway? I am 
unable to grapple with this overwhelming sorrow. I tell you 
Lizzie, I just want to die and leave all the trouble and 
wretchedness.” 

“I trust you may live to see many happy years, Clare.” 

“Lizzie, always remember whatever happens to me, that 
to you I owe the one bright period of my life,” she said 
piteously, “Oh Lizzie! such thoughts, such fancies, have been 
surging through my brain this morning — from a hideous 
dream I had last night I think — 


PASSION PAST. 


123 


“Clare my child,” tightly grasping the two nervous flatter- 
ing hands, “I want you to come with me, 1 am going to give 
you a sleeping powder and put you to bed to sleep oft' this 
nervousness; come! you must take a nap before dinner, now 
come like a good girl.” 

“A nap Lizzie and my poor mother perhaps dying?” she 
cried in a hopeless voice while her black eyes glittered with a 
strange light that told her cousin her soul was passing 
through some deadly peril as oil that other day. 

“Lizzie,” she whispered now so low as to be scarcely heard, 
“I see a fearful possibility coming up before me! 1 have 
seen you at the chess board Lizzie; now can you fancy such a 
game as this? but no! you are a good woman and to the good 
such fancies never come — .” 

“What is it you would tell me my poor Clare?” drawing 
the dark head over on her shoulder. “I am not good and 
such fancies that come to other women come also to me. 
Now dear, tell me what you mean.” 

A sigh escaped the girl. 

“1 saw before me a chess board,” she went on, dreamily, 
though in a louder key, and passing her hands over her eyes 
as if brushing away a mist that had gathered there, “the 
players — one other and myself — the stake, by some strange 
transformation, imbued with life and embodied with a soul 
that by some marvelous introspective view I recognized as 
my own — ” 

“Clare! Clare! come with me or I must call Bridget to 
help carry you!” Now 'thoroughly alarmed and fearful for 
the girl’s reason. In another moment she had helped her 
upstairs. “Now, dear, 1 shall undress you and put this 
gown on you; then I am going to make you take a dose of the 
nastiest medicine you ever saw, or tasted, rather, and then I 
shall sit down here so that you will not dare to raise your 
head from the pillow till dinner time.” 

Quietly closing the door a half hour later she slipped away 
thinking sadly to herself: 

“A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, 

We hid be quiet when we hear it cry; 


124 


PASSION PAST. 


But were we burdened with like weight of pain, 
As much or more we should ourselves complain.* 


“Come in, Douglas, come in!” Charlie’s boisterous welcome 
issued from the depths of the easiest office chair, in which he 
was lazily watching the smoke from his cigar curl above him. 

“How is this, Charlie? all alone?” 

“Yes,” drawled Charlie. “Partner grew discouraged and 
thought hed’d watch about the street corners and catch a pos- 
sible client. They’ve become so distressingly scarce that I 
sometimes wish I’d been shrewd enough to take to theology. 
Wonder if it’s too late yet. But a famine usually follows at 
the heels of a presidential campaign. The worst thing that 
ever happened to this country was for old Greeley to turn up 
his toes. That and the Gould and Fisk affair came within an 
ace of splitting Uncle Sam from stem to stern. What they 
left the Credit Mobilier rascality swallowed up head and tail. 
Yes, old fellow, I’ll tell you,” he went on, unmindful of 
the fact that he had given the other no chance to speak, “the 
dispenser of spiritual food to a hungry, appreciative flock, 
has a decided advantage over a clientless lawyer during elec- 
tion times. Say! is it an insult to the cloth to offer a weed? 
I’m glad I’ve no such Christian scruples. Why, hello, Doug- 
las! There’s nothing the matter, is there?” 

“You enjoy talking so much that it seems a pity to inter- 
rupt you; still, if you will give me a chance to speak 1 should 
like to do so,” dryly. 

“Well, crack away, then.” 

“Your cousin must return home immediately — her mother 
is very ill, and you must come home.” 

The volatile Charlie was sober enough now as he asked: 
“How did she take it? Overcome, I bet! Yes, of course; 
I’ll come at once.” 

“Almost parayzed; but come home with me at once, for 
nothing can be decided until we go, for she is incapable of 
acting for herself.” 

“Douglas, will you speak of yourself before she goes? 
From what my wife tells me, this illness is but a foreshadow- 
ing of the end, and she will be left alone.” 


PASSION PAST. 


125 


“To bring forward my petty hopes at such a time would 
be cowardly. No! I shall wait.” 

“Wait!” cried the other angrily; “I, think it would be less 
cowardly than to leave her to bear this alone. ” 

“You torture me, Kinne! Some time, but not now, I say!” 

“Probably you are still going through the wrestling stage 
— Christian scruples against matrimony,” and Charlie’s hand- 
some nose took an upward tilt. 4 ‘I have half a mind to let 
you into a little secret,” he again tormentingly began: “my 
wife let me into it. After all, your resolution may, in the 
end, save your pride, for I very much doubt if you could 
have won her. She has sworn by everything — her dead father 
and all the rest of it, never to marry — a look on Douglas’ 
face, for a full second, checked further speech. Charlie was 
reckless but generous to a fault. 

4 ‘I ask your pardon, old boy! I’ve been a brute, and I 
vow I didn’t think you were so hard hit. To a girl of seven- 
teen what is such a vow, anyway? Pardon me; it’s only my 
way. ” 

4 ‘There’s nothing to pardon, Charlie; but how many unkind 
things are said with no palliation whatever but those five lit- 
tle words, 4 It is only my way?’ I had hoped that sometime 
she might listen, for the little girl has taken a strong hold on 
my heart, but as I am not in the humor for moralizing nor 
you for listening, we had better end the discussion. ” 

Scarcely a word was spoken at the dinner table. Clare, 
behind a barrier of grief and reserve ate very little and that 
little in silence, which the others sympathetically observed; 
and hardly had the meal ended before she asked to withdraw, 
to begin preparations for her journey. 

“I have read your secret, and I am sorry for you, Douglas,” 
said Lizzie, when those two were alone. “I think it will all 
come right in the end ; you know I have great faith in things 
coming right at last; and, Douglas, in studying over arrange- 
ments to be made for her. I have thought this: as you leave 
us so soon, you could accompany her as far as Norfolk. How 
will my idea suit you?” 

“It will certainly give me much pleasure to follow out your 


126 


PASSION PAST. 


suggestion,” he responded. “Thank you for your kind 
wishes, Lizzie, but I think there is no hope for me,” with a 
little sigh. 

“I shall live to congratulate you,” she answered confi 
dently. “I have set my heart on this, Douglas, see to it that 
you do your part, for I cannot bear to be disappointed. There 
is time enough, for she is but seventeen and you twenty-five. 
Should this illness of her mother’s prove fatal 1 shall have 
Clare come to me and here you can find her.” 

“You seem to have arranged it all in your own mind, but 
1 go away from here without a shadow of hope.” 

“Hopeless at twenty-five with all your life before you? for 
shame!” she said wfith a smile. 

All preparations were completed that evening and on the 
following morning the hour came for breaking up the little 
party. 

“1 wonder if we shall ever see each other again?” sobbed 
Clare at parting. 

“You foolish child!” taking her into her arms and looking 
tenderly into the tear dimmed eyes. “Why should you for 
one moment think that?” 

“I don’t know, unless I wish it, and so few wishes of mine 
are ever gratified.” 

“You wished to come this time and were not disappointed,” 
she said, smiling, “and you must look forward to another 
visit.” 

“I shall always look back on this one as the brightest spot 
in my life.” 

“Many more will come, Clare. I want to see you start in 
a more cheerful mood. Oh Clare! my child, I had until this 
moment forgotten our unpleasant adventure on the train. 
What if you should meet that man ? ’ ’ 

“I have nothing to fear — absolutely nothing, as I told you 
at the time; but I promise to be very careful.” 

“Do Clare. I am glad that Douglas is going. Try to be 
kind to him, wont you dear?” 

“Yes, Lizzie, for your sake.” 

“No, Clare, for your own sake,” she urged, “but here 


PASSION TAST. 


127 


comes your hack! Oh, child, now the last moment has come, 
there are so many things I should like to say to you.” 

But at the moment Douglas and Charlie came down stairs, 
their hands filled with packages and bundles and cut off fur- 
ther speech. In another moment the three had taken their 
seats inside the cab, which was already late. The driver 
gathered up the lines and away they went over the frozen 
ground. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


To one in Clare’s anxious state the trip was tiresome and 
without interest. When nearing Northampton, where she 
again expected to encounter Clayton Hereford, she saw with 
a feeling of intense relief Charlie hand their tickets to the 
same middle-aged official with whom she had traveled before. 

On shipboard, away from the din and roar of rushing 
trains, her intercourse with Douglas was almost unbroken, 
for Charlie, with tact and diplomacy worthy of a surer cause, 
left them to themselves. 

The chivalrous attention paid to her by Douglas would 
have touched a heart less impressionable than Clare’s, and 
though she was in no danger of falling in love, she sometimes 
caught herself speculating gloomily over a possible “what 
might have been” had she never met Horace Woodland. She 
therefore accepted the attentions so delicately forced upon 
her with a feeling of regret for her lost chances of happiness. 

Yet Douglas never spoke a word that every fellow passen- 
ger might not hear. 

The two were sitting apart from the others one afternoon, 
having secured in one corner of the saloon two easy chairs, in 
whose comfortable depths they could be as lazy as the rolling 
motion of the steamer would permit. 

To a stranger, doubtless, there would have seemed an air 
about the strikingly handsome man and the beautiful girl, 
suggestive of — love-making, and he would have been sur- 
prised at the philosophic drift of the conversation, the subject 
being the one nearest her heart — the struggle between the 




PASSION PAST. 129 

millions of poor, down-trodden humanity and the class she 
hated and envied. 

“Yes, Douglas,” she went on, “every declension of the 
word Life shows a resistance to death, and I suppose it is 
natural to all endowed with ^ vitality and the instincts for its 
defense and preservation to cling to it,” and Douglas said: 

“The vulgar and unrefined make so little of that which the 
philosopher cannot contemplate but with a feeling of awe — 
the possible future of such little mites of humanity as those,” 
pointing to the two or three children playing near them. “In 
each of them the thinker sees a possible Lincoln, Darwin or 
Davis, knowing it is possible that the tot of two years may, 
with one bold stroke of his pen, give enlightenment and cul- 
ture to millions of benighted souls, or from the comprehen- 
siveness of a great mind brought to bear upon scientific re- 
search reveal the hidden mysteries of evolution, or bring to 
light the missing link; or again, as demonstrated by the late 
civil war, it may one day grasp a republic in its relentless 
clutch and with one sweep of its mighty arm hurl desolation 
over our country.” 

“Is there anything in that boy’s face to tell you which he 
is destined to be?” she asked mischievously, when he ceased. 

“At so early an age it would be difficult to find a distinct- 
ive mark. ” 

“Suppose we call him over to us? our united efforts may 
discover the bent of his mind,” she suggested. 

“And bring down upon us the resentment of his parents?” 
he asked. 

“I don’t care to let my curiosity go so far, after all 
Douglas,” with a bitter ring in her young voice,” it may be 
that his mission in life will be to add strength to that class of 
society whose very existence means the oppression of the 
poor and weak. Let us strangle him now Douglas on the 
mere possibility.” 

“I feel quite afraid of you Clare,” in mock alarm, “and I 
hope as you grow older such dangerous sentiments may 
become softened by observation and impartial study of all 


130 


PASSION PAST. 


classes. Now admit, that they have been nourished by mere 
fancies instead of actual experience.” 

But she still looked defiant. 

“I hope all your fancies are not of this nature,” he said 
laughing, ‘‘nevertheless, I should like to hear some more of 
them. ” 

“They are foolish and childish,” falling in with his humor, 
“for instance I used to think that all persons of refined and 
cultured minds, or those engaged in art, literature and intel- 
lectual pursuits held some sort of moral and social supremacy 
over those less gifted, that some distinctive mark of superior 
birth or breeding must necessarily be stamped upon their 
features so indelibly that all could see.” 

“All these gifts should be recognized and allowed their 
proper place, but such gifts are merely accidental and may 
be nourished by cruel, crafty natures. The supremacy 
rightly belongs to those who would not abuse its power — to 
gentleness and kindness of heart which shrinks from the 
infliction of pain socially or physically upon those less fortu- 
nate — ” 

“Go on,” she said, as he paused for an instant. 

“I had in my mind as an illustration, a young girl who 
possessed the lovliest character I ever knew, though without 
this distinctive mark.” 

“Do tell me about her, Douglas,” she said, eagerly. “We 
have a long afternoon before us and I’m sure she has a ro 
mance. ’ ’ 

“There is a little romance which came to me as her minis- 
ter, though I do not know as I ought to speak of it, even to 
you.” 

“What a romantic sound that has. Go on Douglas,” she 
again urged. 

“My young friend is lovely in person, intellect and char- 
acter, a great favorite with elderly men and has received a 
score of proposals from the young ones without having ever 
been in love. Her parents, being very poor, were unable to 
give their daughter the social advantages she naturally 
craved. With all her fine attributes, my friend possessed 


PASSION PAST. 


131 


one fault. She was not satisfied with her own station in 
life.” 

“And she was snubbed and ostracized by the class occupy- 
ing* a higher station?” broke in the other. 

“Neither altogether snubbed nor ostracized, for at last one 
young man, himself wealthy and a member of a family of 
social leaders, fell in love with her and asked her to marry 
him. For the first time her own heart was touched; and at 
this period she came to me — ” 

“But why should she have done that, Douglas, when noth- 
ing was left but to marry this wealthy suitor and lift herself 
up to those who had ostracised her?” Clare asked, her eyes 
kindling with wonder and defiance. 

“She had a relative, though a distant one, who, by his gross 
immorality had made himself an outcast, one who would take 
pleasure in flaunting his degradation before this proud family, 
if by so doing he could bring shame to the one whose purity 
he envied. ” 

“Shall I marry him without telling him of this person, 
leaving him to learn it accidently as he surely will, and per- 
haps accuse me of having taken advantage; or tell him and 
ask his protection from this person?” she asked me. 

“What does your mother advise?” was my answer. 

“She says he must be told, though she doubts if he will 
stand the test. ' I could love him devotedly,” she said in anwer 
to the question she read in my own eyes, “if he would stand 
by me through it all, and hate him should he fail.” 

“What girl would not feel the same way, Douglas?” 

“Tell him, or have your mother do so if you can not, and 
you will thus rid yourself of an incubus you dread, and your 
lover will love you all the more for your bravery.” 

“Why Douglas, he would have been too contemptible other- 
wise.” 

“But after a struggle with her pride for several weeks, her 
courage failed, and she resolved to give him up without any 
explantation. 

“I think too much of him to marry him with such a weight 
dragging me down, and if he would have failed me I shall 


132 


PASSION PAST. 


spare myself the shame his desertion would bring, did I 
know,” she told her mother with, tears in her eyes. 

Her mother resolved to take the matter in her own hands 
by telling him privately; but wishing first to try his love for 
her daughter, she reviewed, in a note the flirtation, for she 
ignored all warmer feelings on his part, and asked him to 
cease his attentions as otherwise the affections of her daughter 
might become unhappily involved; then begging him to spare 
her daughter the mortification of knowing all the note implied, 
she waited developments. His first step was to put the note 
in the girl’s hands, denouncing her mother in the bitterest 
terms and begging her to give up her truest, best friend for 
him. This siege he kept up for several more weeks, unmind- 
ful of the inroads the conflict was making on her health. 

Knowing the secret motive prompting her mother, she 
defended her, refusing to listen when she saw that all effort to 
bring about an understanding proved futile, and to da}^ she 
is thoroughly happy and her fancy for him has died out, 
instead of ripening into a hopeless love. ’ ’ 

“Am I to understand that the mistake was never cleared 
away Douglas? the underlying cause of it all? she asked in 
disgust” 

“It never will be. While he concedes that she has no 
faults, so many unsuspected traits in his character came to 
the surface, that she was disillusioned. She could never for- 
give him for betraying her mother to her. Though possess- 
ing a high moral character he was fitful in temper, extremely 
jealous and altogether uncongenial. The case is a study in 
nature, Clare, and affords food for thought. Another feature 
of this little romance, one which will appeal to the supersti- 
tious side of your nature, if there is such, is, she secretly 
visited one of those strange clarivoyants who claim to be 
able to tell your past and reveal your future. She did so to 
the last detail, however secret; even his name, his broken 
engagement with the brown-haired girl for her sake, the ven- 
omous things said by the fair-haired woman, her mother's 
agency.” 


PASSION PAST. 


133 


“But you will surely marry this man, for he loves you 
truly, but thinks you care nothing for him. Tell him every- 
thing- this woman has said, the trouble this relative is giving* 
you and he will think more of you than ever.” 

“Douglas,” Clare said, after a moment’s silence, “I don’t 
like your romance one bit. You have sundered two young 
hearts who, doubtless, would have been happy. You think 
it is impossible for the misunderstanding to be cleared away? 
It is a serious thing, I think, to array oneself against the lady 
dealer in occult science, as your friend has done.” 

“Quite impossible to clear it away,” he answered thought- 
fully, “unless some novelist writes it up some day.” 

“And your young friend in the meantime? What of her?” 

“Finds solace in her ambition to arise above her present 
surroundings, so if she ever really loves she can say to the 
man of her choice: ‘By my own achievements I have made 
myself the equal of your family and yourself.’ Remember, 
one of the venomous things said by the fair haired woman 
was that she hoped my friend would not allow this man to 
make a fool of her for, of course, he never would marry her.” 

“The cat! But what is this ambition by which she thinks 
to rise?” 

“She is a writer of no mean ability; has had two or three 
stories published already.” 

“Still, I cannot help but think she made a mistake about 
the disreputable relative, though you advised differently. No 
doubt there were such in his own family whom he did not 
care to parade before the public gaze. No family is free 
from them. The girl and her mother became morbidly sensi- 
tive over a thing they could not help. No, Douglas, I do not 
like your romance,” she concluded severely. 

“I was young, Clare, and prone to making mistakes and in 
advising her I followed my honest convictions. Our solitude 


134 


PASSION PAST. 


is about to be invaded for I see Charlie. I hope we may 
resume our conversation after supper, Clare.’ 

“Perhaps, if you care to,” she said evasively 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“Douglas,” said Clare a few hours later, “I have been 
thinking about your young friend all evening. I hope she 
may yet live to set her little part of the world on fire by her 
genius and burn up her weak, cranky lover in the conflagra- 
tion.” 

“And I hope, Clare, she may open up a new field, one 
worthy of her, for so much of the literature of to-day gives 
to readers — the young especially — too highly colored and 
ornamental ideas of the commonplace existence of the com- 
monplace people, such as we. There is too much exquisite 
irony against poverty and the unavoidable ignorance and want 
of external polish entailed by it upon those otherwise refined 
and noble minded. 

“Still, it is a gift to be able to portray the emotions of 
mind and soul, though the result may be thousands of useless 
and harmful works of fiction, causing many a brother to 
stumble.” 

“Another unworthy abuse of the strong over the weak, 
against which my voice shall always be raised. ” 

“I believe your tendencies, like my owii, are nihilistic, 
Douglas.” 

“Not to the degree of bearing the red flag before an excited 
people. Clare,” he said, giving away at last to an impulse 
he was unable longer to resist, “may I not hope that, instead 
of nurturing these tendencies you may some day be content 
to reign over one kingdom subject to yourself alone — a hus- 
band’s heart?” 

“Why Douglas!” coloring vividly, “that would be a dan- 


136 


PASSION PAST. 


gerous experiment for one of such warlike tendencies. In- 
surrection would surely follow.’’ 

“Of sovereign against subject, Clare?” in a tremulous 
voice. “Such a thing cannot be found recorded in the annals 
of history, and possibly the turbulent spirit might in time 
become subdued by the little god whose weapons of warfare 
are the magic how and quiver. ” 

“Nay, nay, Douglas,” struggling to defend herself against 
this unlooked for attack, yet trying not to wound him, “such 
a surrender would be unworthy the spirit and prowess of 
anarchy. ” 

“Mary we not at least agree upon a truce under which to 
consider all possible terms of capitulation?” he persisted 
gently. 

“Douglas, I am too young ever to have given much thought 
to matters of so grave a nature. If I have ever thought of 
them, it was only in the abstract — separate from myself.” 

“Yes, you are too young,” he assented, “but sometime 
when you are older ?” 

“Not while my mother lives, I desire no change, no com- 
panionship but hers.” 

“The best guide and companion possible for the formation 
of a young girl’s character. A mother, by her teachings, 
can best fit a daughter for her future as wife and mother.” 

He wondered why she turned so deathly white and did 
not think it wise to press the matter too closely. Leaning 
back in his seat with his hands clasped behind his head he 
quietly and reflectively studied her. Charlie’s words occurred 
to him and made him wonder if there was any secret buried 
away in this girl’s heart. 

“Clare,” he said at last with infinite tenderness, bending 
over her, “forgive me for saying it, there is a look upon vour 
face at times when in repose that tells me you have suffered.” 

Instantly recovering herself she answered lightly: “To say 
I grant forgiveness Douglas would be a tacit acknowledgment 
that there is something to forgive. Now 1 suppose,” she 
went on, “like other girls I have not been free from trouble. 
What retrospect fails to call up different times and seasons of 


PASSION PAST. 


137 


keenest suffering? from cut fingers and broken dolls to the 
awaking from our first love dream? for in spite of former 
assertions, keenest anguish — untold torture of mind, from 
unrequited love at the mature age of eleven, the object of my 
adoration being a noble youth of thirteen. Six years,” reflect- 
ively, unmindful of the pain in the man’s face, pain at her 
flippancy, “since I loved and lost him, and I am encouraged, 
for time, the healer of all such cases, is slowly effecting a 
cure. 

He did not reply for a moment, and in affected sympathy, 
she said: “Have you been a victim, also, Douglas?” 

“Yes, and like yourself, with no hope of return; but by the 
time 1 am thirty, by your rule of computation, I may hope 
for a cure. But, Clare, Clare, with any hope of return, 1 
would gladly serve seven years, as did Jacob.” 

“So I thought; and remember my tender age; a decade in 
your favor, Douglas,” her heart beating like a hammer, yet 
determined he should see no signs of the weakness she felt. 

Once at Norfolk it was easy for Douglas to determine to 
keep on as far as Richmond, and at I o’clock the following 
evening our little party was conveyed from the steamer to 
the hotel, there to wait the train due at eleven. 

“It does seem as if Charlie is determined on having the 
least possible trouble with me,” Clare said, watching him 
with resentful eyes as he discreetly withdrew himself and 
cigar to the gentleman’s parlor, thus leaving her a last tete a 
tete, which she dreaded. 

But Douglas had felt a wonderful Christian indulgence for 
Charlie’s short comings for the past few days, and said with 
cheerful resignation: 

“He has one truly redeeming trait, his unselfishness in al- 
owing me to look after you.” 

“You have been kind to me, Douglas, and robbed a tire- 
some journey of much unpleasantness. In times like these 
we prove our friends.” 

“The name in its complete sense means much, so much 
that you may feel like doubting the strength of a friendship 


138 


PASSION PAST. 


but a few weeks old; but, should the time ever come when 
you need a friend, will you remember me Clare?” 

“There is consolation in feeling that you are willing,” her 
voice perceptibly weakening, “but Douglas, there are times 
when each one of us must struggle on alone, unaided even by 
friends who are ready to help us — times when each must 
fight his own battles. You and I are now doing this, while 
you are powerless to help me, I to aid you.” 

“You mistake the strength of friendship” he began. 

“Let those ties be ever so strong, Douglas, I tell you an 
hour must come when they prove futile and each must bear 
his own burden.” 

“Clare, do you deny the far seeing wisdom of One who has 
said: bear ye one another’s burdens? Can the hour come, the 
contingency arise for Him not to understand one’s need? If 
I only knew why you take such a mordid view of life — ,” then 
he hesitated. 

“If I but knew myself.” 

“Do not forget, Clare, One, who has said: though others 
fail He never will,” he asid in a low voice. 

Her eyes filled with tears, for to-night was her last, with 
this true, devoted friend, perhaps for years, perhaps forever, 
and her heart felt strangely softened towards him. 

“The philosophy of life has taught me differently,” she 
said, “a cruel civil war brought on through the blind fanati- 
cism of a few party leaders, deprived me of a loving father, 
my mother of an idolized husband. To-day these fanatics are 
rolling in luxury and wealth, a few hundreds of which would 
have placed my mother in comparative comfort. Even the 
supreme happiness of bringing home his poor bones was 
denied her, Douglas. He has surely failed when we needed 
Him most. My mother is sinking under the burden He has 
laid upon her,” and she met his sympathetic eyes half 
defiantly. 

“There is no one with whom your mother would exchange 
the peace of mind springing from the knowledge of having 
so cheerfully borne those burdens. Except for one thing 


PASSION PAST. 


139 


hers would be the peace that passeth all understanding, judg- 
ing from what [ have heard of her Christian character.” 

She looked at him inquiringly. 

The two alone for the time occupied the ladies’ parlor. 
“That one thing? what is it?” she asked. 

“The thought of leaving you alone and uncared for when 
God takes her. Clare! come to me will you not and thus 
remove her anxiety?” 

“No, no! it is impossible!” she cried, the vivid color again 
dying her cheek, then receding and leaving it deathly white. 

“Dear child, I would not be selfish; try to understand this. 
You think the time inopportune for speaking but now the 
time for parting has come I wish you to feel assured that 
whenever your burden becomes too heavy 1 am waiting, let 
it be in one — two — three — or as I have said, seven years.” 

“Oh Douglas!” she sobbed, “would that I had known you 
first, before the fires of a sudden passion swept over my 
heart leaving nothing but dead ashes — nothing but dead 
ashes,” her voice dying away in a low wail. 

“Clare! Clare,” he cried astounded, “but seventeen! so 
young that but for your mother’s state I should not have the 
courage to speak! Do you love this man ?’, 

“No, no! I feel nothing but hate strong as life, bitter as 
death for the one who has left me nothing. All chance of hap- 
piness turned to dead sea fruit! Love him?” 

“Oh my little darling! What can I say to comfort you? 
child it is impossible for your life to be ended at seventeen. 
You will arise from this, purified by suffering, into a grand 
and noble womanhood. I shall never love again, but if you 
can, be comforted by the assurance that, while this love is to 
me a crowning joy it shall not spoil my life’s work. If within 
a hidden recess of my heart there his a hallowed memory of 
the love that has come to me, it shall not conflict with the 
work that is but a preparation for the higher life. Theolo- 
gians might say that inspiration for my work must come from 
other than a human love but this will never impede my foot- 
steps. ” 


140 


PASSION PAST. 


She gazed into his face spell bound, the words running 
through her mind: 

“There is no life of a man faithfully recorded, but is a 
heroic poem of its sort, rhymed or unrhymed.” 

She moaned at last: “Oh why have I thus missed my life’s 
happiness? You have almost persuaded me, Douglas — and 
yet, while my heart is filled with this implacable hate and 
wish for revenge there is no room for any other.” 

“Time well soften the one dear, and a new love supplant 
the other and I am willing to wait. Clare will you give me 
two promises before we part?” 

“Unconditionally?” she asked a little anxiously 

“Unconditionally.” 

“I promise.” 

“That I may write to you and that you will answer my 
letters.” 

“Yes Douglas, I shall take that as an assurance that you 
have forgiven me; now the other.” 

“I have nothing to forgive. Now dear the other is this: 
After you return to your mother you will make an earnest 
effort to fight against this depression unnatural in a girl so 
young. Let the first definite object of your life be your 
mother’s comfort and happiness and others will quickly 
follow, leaving no time for the indulgence of sorrows which, 
I do think come from wounded pride and that which is so 
blighting and malevolent in its nature and effects — selfishness 
and jealousy.” 

The girl did not answer. 

“Perhaps dear you have never realized how a mother 
mutely appeals to her daughter for comfort and sympathy as 
she feels her own form bowing under the cares of life, and 
how her heart may be starving for the little expressions of 
affectionate thoughtfulness that the daughter leaves unspoken, 
1 say mutely, for in this fact is food for reflection, how few 
are the demands a mother makes for herself upon the 
thoughtless, indifferent child who should sometimes remember 
that the mother never stopped to count the footsteps taken 
for her since her earliest infancy.” 


PASSION PAST. 


141 . 


“I can not recall one instance when mamma asked me to 
save her a step though I have never thought of it until you 
have now forced it upon me. I never before realized that I 
am unlike other daughters.” 

“You are not unlike other daughters, Clare, and for this 
unfortunate result of the child’s education the mother may not 
be entirely blameless, for a too unselfish parent ma}^ almost 
unconscously foster that very trait in her child, both may live 
to deplore.” 

“You and Lizzie have opened my eyes to many things, 
Douglas, now when too late to prove to her how dearly I love 
her.” 

“Improve those opportunities left you then, in watching 
the close of a beautiful life, you will feel fewer regrets. There 
is another way in which one may learn to forget many little 
vexations of life — a systematic course in mental training. ” 

“My reading perhaps has been rather desultory and frivo- 
lous.” 

“It is nearly always so with the young. There are a hun- 
dred things I might say to you had I the time. Read, write, 
reflect! Write down your thoughts and send to me. I may 
be able to aid you. Do not think the trials and temptations 
sent to you the hardest to be borne or to be resisted. Try to 
think this, will you, Clare?” 

“I will try; but if I should fail?” 

“Our copy books tell us there is no such a word.” 

When the time had come to part she said, “Douglas you 
said you would do anything for me?” 

“Yes indeed what is it you wish?” 

“This’,” her eyes falling under his honest gaze as she 
brought to light the letter written some time before. “I am 
anxious to mail this letter to a friend without the knowledge 
of any one; so for this reason I can not mail it at home where 
my handwriting is so well known. Will you drop it in the 
office when you reach Lake View?” 

He saw that she had carefully enclosed it in an outside 


142 


PASSION PAST. 


cover of paper. After a little struggle in his own mind he 
placed it in his pocket. 

“You will not look at the address?” 

The honest eyes met her’s showing the disapproval he felt. 
After all she could not trust him ! 

“I do not feel in the least tempted and besides Clare, I 
trust you. Your letter shall not see the light until is placed 
in the office at Lake View.” 

“Thank you!’ 1 coloring under the rebuke. 

“Dear,” he said at parting, looking-tenderly down into her 
face, “if in five, ten or fifteen years you bid me I will come 
at once for my love, faithful and true, will know no limit of 
years. ” 

“Oh, Douglas, had I but known! had I but known! Douglas,” 
she said at the very last, “will you keep me informed of your 
friend’s career, if she succeeds?” 

“Yes, I promise to send you a copy of her first book.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


“Home at last, Charlie, and here is Doctor Wilcox looking 
out for me,” Clare said, as the train pulled in at the depot. 
“How is she, doctor?” shaking hands, then turning to intro- 
duce her cousin. 

“Better! or soon will be, now you have come; but into my 
carriage, first; then we will talk as we drive home. I drove 
over on the chance of your coming, knowing you would if 
you made proper connections.” 

“Now, doctor, I am waiting for you to tell me of mamma. 
I know that she is very ill and you are evading me,” she said, 
when the three had taken their seats. 

“Why should I do that, Clare, when I know you must hear 
all about it? Yes, your mother has been, and is still, very 
ill. It was to prepare you for the change in her that I have 
met you, for so much depends upon your calmness and self- 
control. Both will be taxed when you see her.” 

“Surely, doctor, you can not mean that she is confined to 
her bed?” she cried, with widely distended eyes. 

“Yes, Clare, with typhoid fever, for which she was a fit 
subject in her low condition. ” 

“Typhoid fever, and I not with her!” 

“Old granny Carter came, who, you know, is a host within 
herself when free from her attacks of bronchitis. She had 
one yesterday, so you are just in time; but the crisis was 
passed with your mother last night, and now, with the best 
of nursing, we may hope to keep her another year.” 

“Another year! only another year! oh doctor! Charlie! I 
cannot bear it.” 


144 


TASSION TAST. 


“For her sake you must bear it Clare.” With a warning 
glance at Charlie, “I am not sure of a favorable issue even 
now and 1 know, for her to see you in your present state will 
kill her: now what will you do, try to be a brave daughter 
and nurse or snap the mere thread that holds her to life?” 

“You now see what you must do Clare,” said her cousin 
severely, “F rom this moment you must forget, Clare Fontaine. 
Under a great excitement the doctor says your mother will 
die. Can you bear that ? ’ ’ 

“Heaven help and pity me! I will try ChaLdie,” his sever- 
ity acting as a momentary tonic. 

“If course you will try and succeed too,” his tones soften- 
ing as he looked at the sad face and eyes red with weeping. 

“Doctor,” she said, for the first time noticing that he too 
looked haggard and worn, “have you been ill also ? why your 
hair is much whiter and you look ten years older.” 

“Thank you for your complimnte Clare! Ten years older 
indeed! Even if it were true, I suppose a physician may 
sometimes look ill like ordinary mortals,” he replied huffily. 

Nothing moie was said until the cottage came into view 
then came back the heavy aching sense of the trouble that had 
come upon her. 

“Now Clare, pull yourself together,” said Charlie sharply 
as he helped her down, “This is John who does not look one 
day older than when I saw him last. Surely John, you must 
have been drinking from the waters of perpetual youth, 
here take your mistress’ packages.” 

“I don’t know what yo’ mean sah. Ise mos’ly drunk out’n 
the ole well thah,” he said scratching his woolv head for an 
instant; then taking the girl in his arms as in her days of 
babyhood he blubbered: “Chile, Ise willin’ now to go an’ lib 
wid de angels — now dese ole "eyes see yo lubly face once 
moah.” 

“You black rascal!” shouted the doctor, “let me hear of 
your going to the angels at such a busy time.” 

But the old servant was not to be extinguished thus without 
a protest; he rolled up his eyes and said to Charlie: 

“I hope sah yo’ won’ lay it up agin de doctah fo’ tinkin’ to 


PASSION PAST. 


145 


’flict wid de heabenly mastah’s will; kase if dis ole niggah 
time come he aint gwine keep in heah.” 

“Well John, we’ll ask the heavenly Father to spare you to 
us a little longer at any rate, ” he answered laughing. 

At the threshold a flood of emotion passed over her. “We 
thought it better to have your mother down stairs in the 
spare room on old granny’ & account,” she heard the doctor 
say, “Courage; courage child! for your mother’s sake,” and 
her own voice answered: 

“Yes, I will try and be brave; but I had better bathe my 
face or she will see I have been crying, poor mamma!” 

This done: “Now, let me go in alone, doctor, and you go 
in the parlor and talk to Charlie,” she said. 

“Can 1 trust you fully, Clare? It will be a terrible shock 
to you unless you steel yourself, and so much depends on 
you.” 

“Yes, I will be brave from this moment. You can trust 
my mother with me. Why, doctor, I feel like a woman of 
thirty instead of a girl of seventeen. Outside this door I put 
away all childish things and devote myself to her.” 

“I know you will succeed,” he said, knowing that to pity 
her would unnerve her. “I’ll make your cousin comfortable 
and then go way. I’ll drop in later on.” 

She thought that she must scream out at sight of the poor, 
thin face on the pillow, the eyes full of piteous expectancy; 
but she conquered the inclination, and knelt beside the bed. 

“My child! my baby!” the words almost inaudible came 
from the white lips. 

“Yes, your baby came back to you like a bad penny,” 
passing her hand lovingly over the dear head, “you can never 
send me away again, mamma. Nothing shall ever part us for 
a moment. What a capital nurse I am going to be! 1 believe 
I was cut out for one and have been letting my talent rust all 
these years because I didn’t know I possessed one, ” laughing, 
perhaps hysterically. 

Unable to talk, she lay there in happy content looking into 
her child’s face and listening to her endearing words; and at 
last Clare put her own cheek beside the wasted one. It was 


146 


PASSION PAST. 


not very long before the quiet breathing assured her that her 
mother had fallen into a much needed sleep. The fingers of 
the invalid relaxed and finally let go their clasp. 

She called John and stationing him near the door to watch 
for the least sign of awaking, she stole out to find her cousin 
and found him by the parlor fire engaged with some of the 
moth-eaten books from the old book- case. 

“Alone, Charlie? Oh, Charlie, how am I to bear it? Only 
one short year !” 

“The doctor does not know any better than you or I, Clare. 
He is not infallible. She may live to dance at her grand- 
daughter’s wedding. ” 

“It is no time for jesting. A look in her face would silence 
you.” 

“When may I see her, Clare?” the humor hushed by the 
sadness in her eyes and voice. 

“When she arouses. I have quieted her to sleep and while 
John watches by her, you and I may find something to eat.” 

“I don’t think I was ever so hungry as now, Clare. I am 
absolutely starving;” knowing that she needed nourishment 
more than he. 

That night, long after Charlie fell asleep, Clare sat by the 
sick bed trying to solve the problem that has puzzled man- 
kind since the beginning of time — the mighty problem of 
Ways and Means. She knew that of the hated hundred there 
could not be more than fifty dollars, perhaps not half so 
much; and she would starve rather than spend one cent on 
herself. 

Knowing one ruling principle of her mother’s life was to 
keep out of debt, there would be no such obstacles to con- 
front her. Douglas’ words came up: “Let the first definite 
object of your life be the comfort and happiness of your 
mother.” The time had come for her to grapple with the 
difficulties of house keeping. Plan after plan suggested 
itself to be in turn rejected as impracticable; but she resolved 
that by the work of her own hands her mother should have 
comforts and luxuries her illness demanded. 

3he hastily reviewed her available weapons in this battle 


['ASSLON PAST. 


147 


for bread — which were three — to teach, take lodgers or do 
fancy work, and her heart sank within her. 

U 1 shall talk it over with the doctor to-morrow,” she 
resolved at last; and on the following day, when alone with 
him, she brought it up to find all her ambitions and schemes 
opposed — even ridiculed. 

“Take lodgers! As you mother’s physician I forbid the 
noise and confusion necessarily attending the presence of 
strangers in the house,” he said, to her first suggestion. 

“Desirable lodgers will consider all that,” she argued, 
unwilling to see her theories crumbled thus. “And just one 
more to the many obligation doctor, by helping me find four 
lodgers for those two rooms up stairs, which I can fix up at 
a trifling expense. John would attend to them and leave me 
to nurse mamma.” 

“And have all the privacy of home broken up?” 

“That is of far less importance than that of providing com- 
forts for my mother,” for the first time in her life angry 
with her old friend. “I must now look at things from this 
standpoint: You say she may live a year or two. I must 
begin at once to do something.” 

“Think of something else besides taking a lot of wild 
young fellows in her house to make her last days uncom- 
fortable. ” 

“There is nothing but teaching and fancy work — this last I 
could do while sitting by her; and that kind of work pays.” 

“One or two dollars a week at most I suppose! Admitting 
that you have been taught by the “sisters” as you call them; 
at this time, when ladies are bravely trying to break loose 
from the shackles which two hundred years of social pride 
have riveted, there are many cempetitors in all fields open to 
women. So much for the so called “fancy work” fallacy! 
Try again Clare!” 

“There is teaching — ,” she began weakly, “A term 
synonmous with “fancy work” and “lodgers,” and just as 
feasible Clare. There are the public schools; but owing to 
political strife and social prejudice still in unfavorable repute, 


148 


PASSION PAST. 


and as the teachers are now engaged for the term that is out of 
the question till fall.” 

“Then what am I to do to keep my poor mother from 
starving when you thus close every avenue against me?” the 
angry tears coming into her eyes, sore and hurt to see her 
ambition thwarted in every way. 

He let her weep on in silence for awhile, then at last he said, 
his own voice trembling: 

“Clare, why must conventionalities, which we dispise, de- 
bar me from giving to you from my abundance? It is a mat- 
ter of but a few years any way. To allow me to help you 
now may be less hard to bear than the sense of unsuccessful 
effort that you may feel in the future.” 

“Why, doctor, how can I possibly accept help from you? 
I can not understand your drift.” 

“Child, child! I have thought I would never speak. I 
think it both unwise and useless, even now,” his face flushing 
as his eyes failed to meet her inquiring ones, “There ib yet 
one chance possible for your mother to be made more com- 
fortable.” 

“Tell me, doctor, you surely know how glad I will be,” not 
an inkling of the truth occurring to her. 

“It is, to make ours a common sorrow, Clare, in the eyes 
of the law. My child, take your memory back ten years 
when you, a child of seven stood at your mother’s knee in 
open eyed curiosity, listening to the news of your father’s 
death on the battlefield. I was a young surgeon at the time 
and up to that moment I had never loved. ” 

“There is no fool like an old fool,” was her first indignant 
thought, “Clare!” he said, desperate, now he had spoken 
at all, “think of the long years of hopeless waiting, for on 
that day when, for the first time I looked upon the pure 
Madonna like face of Alice Fontaine heart went out to her 
never to be recalled.” 

Clare let her eyes fall from his face with a guilty little 
sensation, to be quickly followed by one of hot anger and 
resentment. No need for further words to make his mean- 
ing plain! 


PASSION PAST. 


149 


Her pretty gentle mother to whom such carnal love as this 
was a sacrilege! 

“Oh doctor Wilcox for shame!” turning on him with blaz- 
ing eyes, ‘ ‘To think that my saint like little mother should 
inspire such love or passion in the heart of any man! why 
have you so humiliated her and me?” 

He turned away to hide the smile that played about his lips 
at this violent expression of wounded pride for such he felt it 
to be. 

“Child, you are but seventeen and know nothing whatever 
of unrequited love. Remember no other has ever come to 
me and 1 have now reached middle age. Now, I regret hav- 
ing told you this which 1 never expected to confide to any 
one.” 


CHAPTER XXL 


“Doctor, forgive me for wounding you in such a childish 
way.” She wondered what Douglas would say of this, if he 
could know. Already Douglas was working a gradual ref- 
ormation in this passionate girl. Still a wave of crimson pass 
ed over her face at the apparent yielding of a single inch of 
the contested ground to the enemy. Yet she asked in wonder: 

“Rather than suffer this pain of an unrequited affection, 
as you call it, for ten long years, why did you never speak? 
Although I refuse to concede a thing that seems so repug- 
nant, still it is possible that everything might have been dif- 
ferent.” 

“Whenever the temptation to speak would come to me, 
my thoughts would go back to the day when I thought her 
heart was laid in your father’s grave. How could I, when 
the sorrow my sad news stamped upon her face never left it?” 

“Still I cannot understand the pusillanimity that would 
permit the woman you loved to struggle on for ten years as 
she has!” now as quick to resent what seemed to her atrocious 
weakness, as a moment before she had thought unpardonable 
and indelicate. 

“Regrets can never restore to us lost opportunities, Clare. 
All I can do is to contribute to her comfort while she lives.” 

“I think such timidity reprehensible,” said the wise young 
judge, severely. “Remember, though, I have not accepted 
the thought of my mother marrying again; yet by having 
restored her to health and happiness, you would have found 
your own happiness. ” 

Sad as the topic was, our worthy Aesculapius almost 


PASSION PAST. 


151 


smiled at the perversity of human nature in general and this 
young girl in particular. 

u Would that everything had been different! 1 lost my 
life’s happiness and a home for my old age through irresolu- 
tion. Clare, learn to be strong and remember one’s success 
in life depends upon decision of character! This is not the 
age for slow vacillating men and women, for moments come 
to all when too much time should not be consumed in calcu- 
lating chances of success or failure. It is hardly possible, my 
dear, to conceive of a more unhappy man than he w r ho is 
dimly conscious of faculties tied up and put away out of sight 
while the people around him are turning over those com- 
mitted to them at a hundred fold.” 

“Doctor, I cannot allow you to traduce yourself, for who 
has made better use of his talents than you? You have visited 
the sick, fed the hungry and have done good whenever you 
could. Now, I am glad you have told me of this tie between 
us, and from this moment I offer you a daughter’s love if it 
will make you happier.” 

“1 accept the trust, dear,” he answered, with an emotion 
that did not disgrace his manhood. 

“And now for your mother?” 

“Doctor, let us both think over what is to us so new and 
strange. We can decide some other time as I have left 
mamma too long, already. ” 

“To-morrow then, Clare, when I come?” he asked, to 
which she assented. 

The next day she said: 

“Doctor, all my life 1 have been thoughtless and neglectful 
of mamma’s comfort and now, when I would make expiation, 
you throw every imaginable obstacle in my way.” 

“I would be the last person in the world to do that; but 
remember, you will not have your mother to direct you; also, 
the anxiety for her to witness your ineffectual efforts, and the 
certainty of your being left alone.” 

“She may recover. Why, she is so much better she wants 
to sit up,” she said hopefully. 


152 


PASSION PAST. 


“Better to-day — worse to-morrow; so it is with her disease; 
but she will never be strong again.” 

“Doctor, I feel so helpless when 1 think of it all,” turning 
away to hide her tears. 

“The Lord gave — the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the 
name of the Lord!” 

“I can not say that,” she said rebelliously, “and how can 
you, if all you said yesterday is true?” 

“I have long ago learnt resignation, and but for this ques- 
tion of your mother’s needs, you never would have known. 
Clare, how much money have you?” resolving to come to the 
point at once. 

“There were fifty-live or six dollars in her purse when I 
looked in it this morning,” she said in embarrassment. 

4 ‘Spend it freely for her, Clare. Our first aim is to build 
up your mother, so procure everything she needs. When 
your purse becomes empty I shall insist on replenishing it. 
From to-day my time and money shall be hers. Your talk 
Clare, of expiation. Show it in your care and companion- 
ship, and I shall be your financier.” 

“And then, after it is all over?” 

“I have twenty thousand dollars which I have long intended 
shall be yours, some day.” . 

“Why, doctor, you will live a half century yet,” moved to 
the inmost depths of her soul. 

“No child, something tells me I shall die young,” with a 
smile. 

“You are concocting some scheme; I know it, else why or 
how should you give me twenty thousand dollars?” 

“Merely a thought. It has not resolved itself into any- 
thing so deep as a scheme,” watching her narrowly for a 
moment. 

“The solution, conceived yesterday, of the difficulty, will 
no doubt shock you,” he said, in answer to the question in 
her eyes. “I have told you I intend you to have my money. 
For ten years 1 have given to your mother the strong deep 
love of a man. There is but one way to remove any scruples 


PASSION PAST. 


153 


you may feel about accepting aid from me, and that is by per- 
suading her to marry me at once.” 

“The excitement would kill her — you know it would!” she 
exclaimed with lips quivering with anger. 

“I have thought of everything and I believe, in the end she 
will be happier,” he said. 

“And the people here, they have never liked me any too 
well. We could never show our faces again.” 

“We need not cater to speculating gossip by giving any 
explanation. But we may safely leave it to her. Oh child, 
the consolation of caring for her in life, the right to lie by 
her side in death will in some degree make up for these lost 
years. ’ ’ 

“Give me a little time to think over the change.” 

“Very well; and now Clare, when does your cousin leave 
you?” 

“On the morning train. He can not stay away from his 
family or business any longer. I’m so sorry he has to go.” 

It was two weeks later that mother and daughter sat before 
the parlor fire engaged in one of their fitful conversations 
usually accompanying busy fingers and wandering thoughts. 
The girl’s fingers dextrously weaving a wonderful spray of 
many hued pansies into a square of linen, for which dainty 
piece of work she had been promised four dollars when 
finished. 

The present had been talked over, the future touched upon, 
and now the two were drifting away back into the past. 
There had never been such a nearness between those two, and 
both were happier than they had ever been. As day by day 
the mother felt herself growing stronger, with every need 
anticipated by her watchful child she did nothing but just 
drift along as the doctor wished. 

At last the conversation went back to the soldier husband 
and father and the reminiscences of Clare’s journey through 
Virginia; and though a tear was seen in her eye, Alice felt 
far less emotion than in days gone by; for, as we feel the time 
draws nearer for us to be reunited with our loved ones, our 


154 


PASSION PAST. 


minds dwell with less regret on separation here on earth. 
So the tear was not one of regret, but as a gentle tribute 
to the happy days of long ago as she murmured: 

“My Louis! My handsome young husband! How my 
lonely, passionate heart clung to him in those days of 
youth — !” 

“Mamma,” Clare ventured in a very low tone, “why is it 
that you have never thought of marrying again? Other wo- 
men do, and it has been ten years you know since papa died.’’ 

“Clare, what ever put such a thing into your silly head?” 
a bright wave of color coming into her strikingly pretty face. 
“Even if I had ever thought of anything so absurd, where 
is the opportunity?” 

“A widow can marry where the girls go begging,” she 
cried merrily, glad of so favorable a beginning to the subject 
nearest her heart. “There’s old Judge Yaugn, a wido »ver; Mr. 
Drew, a bachelor — Doctor Wilcox ditto — .” She arose and 
drawing a stool at her mother’s feet clasped the little useless 
hands in her own. 

“Clare, you surely can not mean it?” 

“I do, mamma. Why have you never thought of this? 
Had you, you might have been happier and better off any- 
way.” 

“Child,” she answered brokenly, “as one lies in enforced 
idleness as I have lain — the hands useless, the body weakened 
by sickness, nothing left for the mind to feed upon but the dry 
husks of a mistaken past one may then see how little one has 
gotten out of that past. Stripped and bare it sometimes 
passes before me like a panorama — .” 

“Your life is not stripped and bare mamma; but full of 
worthy deeds, beautiful resignation and consecration to my 
father’s memory.” 

“Possibly in that consecration I have been selfish, Clare. 
If I had not been so self-absorbed I might have contributed 
more to the happiness of others, and found happiness in so 
doing.” 

For the first time in her life Clare felt a slight revulsion and 
distrust com0 over her as she saw a look of doubt and regret 


PASSION PAST. 


155 


in the pretty face that had through all retained so much of 
the delicate beauty of girlhood. In her own fancy she had 
always clothed her pretty mother in a kind of immaculate 
veil of saintly widowhood and now was this snowy fabric, 
with the next word to be rudely torn asunder, revealing, in- 
stead of a rare creation in delicate porcelain — nothing but 
potters’s clay?” 

At sound of her mother’s voice she buried her face in her 
lap, for she felt that she could not bear to be thus disillu- 
sioned after all; to be told that her handsome young father 
around whose brow her fancy had woven a coronal of romance 
and poetry may have been for years supplanted in her 
mother’s heart by this fat, jolly, common place Doctor Wilcox, 
for of course it could be no other. To think for years the 
two may have silently loved one another just as others had 
loved and she had been unconscious of it all! 

“Yes Clare,” she heard her say, “when, the time comes 
that we can see looming up before us a life full of new 
mysteries we look back with regret, for many lost opportuni- 
ties for making those around us happier. ” 

“You dear saint, yours has been nothing but self sacrifice 
with but one mistake, that of spoiling me and making a use- 
less girl of me. Mamma,” she said abruptly, “did no one 
ever tell you how pretty you were when a girl?” 

‘ ‘The strangest fancies have taken hold of your imagination 
today Clare,” with a little blush. 

“Now mamma own up! you must have had scores of lovers.” 

“Even your wild fancy must fail to create a score out of a 
minimum — your father only.” 

“Mamma,” she said plunging into the subject toward which 
she had been leading, “do you know that I have an ardent 
admirer in Doctor Wilcox? I have been trying for several 
days to tell you something nice,” smiling now to see the 
other’s eyes avoid her own, “something that is going to sur- 
prise you very much.” 

“Pleasant news never hurts us, dear. I sometimes think it 


156 


PASSION PAST. 


is waiting in vain for the fruition of hopes that is hardest to 
bear.” 

“Mamma, what hopes of yours have ended thus?” 

“The strongest and weakest alike, are at times subservient 
to carnal hopes and desires; but, Clare, you have something 
to tell me of Doctor Wilcox.” 

“He insists on making me his heiress for twenty thousand 
dollars. Think of it, mamma; twenty thousand!” 

“Twenty thousand dollars, Clare?” and there was no mis- 
taking the look of dread and expectancy in her eyes. “Why 
should he give you twenty thousand dollars? Surely there is 
some cogent reason!” 

“I knew you would think so. I can tell you in a few 
words — his own are better, perhaps. Well, once upon a 
time — I believe that is the proper beginning,” she was grow- 
ing a little hysterical now, “a decade of years, perhaps, 
there returned from a distant battle-field a young surgeon, or 
if not young, unmarried, bringing tidings to a waiting wife 
that her husband had been sacrificed upon the altar of his 
country. That moment when he looked upon the fair little 
widow with her seven-vear-old child standing at her knee, he 
fell in love — ” 

“Why, Clare, he never told me!” 

“Mamma! mamma!” for a moment shocked at the ejacula- 
tion, “he would not speak for he thought your heart was 
from that moment buried in papa’s grave. Oh, mamma! is 
it possible you would have listened?” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, 

So do our minutes hasten to their end. 

Both were strongly agitated, the girl’s tenderest sensibili- 
ties wounded, the mother dimly conscious of it as she hastened 
to say: • 

“Clare! your mother is done with human loves and human 
passions. The ardent affections of youth can never come 
back, though I think those may sometimes be succeeded by a 
strong, earnest affection, founded on moral excellence and 
worth.” 

“The doctor says,” rushing into the material advantages, 
“that all he hopes for is to care for you as long as you live. 
He will surround you with comforts, procure servants to do 
the work and in the end leave everything to me. ” 

“And as a return for all this, Clare?” 

“The right of a husband,” she answered, the tears filling 
her own eyes as well as the mother’s. 

The shock of it all was over, which, after all, had failed to 
prove a shock; and for awhile neither spoke, until, at last, 
Clare rose to leave the room, when her mother said: 

“Come to me in an hour, Clare.” 

“Tell me your own wishes, Clare, regarding this,” she said 
x when the girl came at the time agreed upon. “Can you take 
kindly to a new father?” 

“I can try mamma, for your sake.” 

“Tell him I will see him to-morrow and oh, my child, if it 
seems to you that I am false to the memory of your father, 
remember it is for your sake.” 


158 


PASSION PAST. 


“Alice, I have always loved you and ill as you are, I would 
rather marry you than any other, for by so doing I can sur- 
round you with comforts and luxuries, and make the rest of 
your life peaceful and happy.” 

“This would be giving all and getting nothing in return.” 

“Alice, Alice! will a happy home and fireside be nothing to 
one who has never known either? In exchange for it I ask 
to care for you in the one way possible.” 

“Dear friend,” she said sadly, “you know life is drawing 
too near its close for me ever again to feel a thrill of human 
passion. Every feeling but that of gratitude is dead within 
me. All carnal affections, hopes, ambitions are gone; leaving 
of the frail body but an empty casket. For your sake as well 
as my own I regret that you did not tell me of this years ago. 
If I could not have given the passionate love of romantic 
girlhood, it might have been a love steadfast and faithful.” 

She sank back trembling and exhausted. 

“The best love of my life is centred ill you Alice and the 
casket, as you call yourself, I accept gladly. You must now 
have rest. I will come again and arrange everything.” 

“No, no John! don’t leave me. Ah, I might have been 
healthier and happier; but it is now too late for regrets.” 

“I shall not long survive you Alice: nor does the thought 
trouble me for now neither you nor I care to outlive the 
other. Clare will be provided for Alice.” 

“It was hard to think of leaving her, doubly so to leave her 
destitute J ohn. ” 

If Hollidale was astonished when reading the following the 
next morning the fact was not brought unpleasantly to her 
notice. 

Married on the — th at Oak Cottage, Mrs. Alice Fontaine 
to Dr. J. W. Wilcox. 

The spring passed quietly and peacefully for the inmates 
of the cottage. Having ample means safely invested for all 
creature comforts, Doctor Wilcox gave up his practice to 
devote himself entirely to his invalid wife. Domestic affairs 
were given into the charge of a dusky lumininary as general 


PASSION PAST. 


159 


house keeper, with two lesser lights revolving about her, but 
each occupying her respective orbit. 

For the first time in his life the doctor realized the com- 
forts, if not the full delights of home. As for Clare, accus- 
tomed as she had always been to poverty, this was to her, 
also, a realization of her dreams of enjoyment and pleasure. 
Her idea of life would have been fulfilled had it not been for 
mother’s precarious condition. 

For as to those ideas Clare had a theory probably all her 
own. Those theories no doubt will call forth a cry of ridi- 
cule and skepticism from many of those votaries of society 
who have not the fortitude to break loose from its trammels, 
sufficiently to prove that the highest altitude of a girl’s en- 
joyment of life does not consist of balls, operas and the like; 
that her individuality need not be made subservient to the 
social law makers of the day. 

Much reading, together with the judicious advice of her 
stepfather, no doubt prejudiced her against many of the young 
men of society. She was couragious enough to make them 
understand the causes of her attitude toward them. 

“What is society here in Hollidale?” she asked one of them 
with contempt. “There is hardly a social gatheriug without 
its wine and even beer drinking, cigarette smoking and ob- 
scenity. Think you I could leave the pure atmosphere of 
my invalid mother’s room to mingle with such?” 

No young man whose private life could not bear the light 
of rigid criticism could find favor with her. When one of 
these proposed marriage to her she said: 

“You are not good enough for me; though I don’t alto- 
gether blame you for what you are; but rather, that class of 
girls who are too weak to take a bold stand against impurity 
and vice. There is safety in numbers for young men; and 
just so long as the girls composing the female element of 
society smile upon and associate with this class of self-indul- 
gent young men, so long will impurity and vice go on.” 

In consequence of adhering to such principles many will 
think that Clare’s life was necessarily brought within a nar- 
row circle; but such was not so. 


160 


PASSION PAST. 


Her ambition was to fit herself for something very differ- 
ent and she eagerly grasped the opportunity to cultivate her 
taste for music and the languages. These, and the course in 
reading promised Douglas, left her no time to be lonely or to 
spend in social dissipation. 

Occasionally encouraging, helpful letters came from Doug- 
las, though never a word was said touching the matter so 
near to his heart; for while her mother lived he knew this 
would be useless. In early summer came a letter from Liz- 
zie announcing the advent of a daughter, to which young lady 
had been given the name of Alice. 

Winter succeeded the summer and still the gentle mother 
lived on, no doubt kept alive by the devotion of husband, 
daughter and servants; though the husband knew that all 
this could not save her, and in spite of his efforts to hide the 
inroads the knowledge was making upon his own face, the 
lines became deeper, the hair and mustache whiter. 

The second spring a letter came from Lizzie from which 
we quote the following: 

“Of course, Clare, you will never forget our friends — 
Hiram and Rachael! A few days ago the former stopped at 
the gate with a load of vegetables; and when I asked him the 
cause of the broad smile on his face, he proudly informed me 
that he had the peartest gal baby at his house.” 

It was one evening in the cold, dreary month of December, 
that the gentle spirit returned to the God who gave it; so 
cold that even by artificial aid the little spark of life could no 
longer be kept alive in the frail casket. But Alice Wilcox 
had long ago put her house in order. To Clare, she be- 
queathed John — born in bondage to her house — grown old 
and gray in faithful service, she knew he would not long 
survive her. 

For a day or two she knew the time was fully come, so all 
she had to do on this last day was to fold her thin hands upon 
her breast and wait the silent messenger. 

Her husband bowed over her in speechless agony, but 
when he saw a smile on her face, one bitter cry broke from 
him as he buried his face in the bed clothes: 


PASSION PAST. 


161 


“Oh, Alice, come back to me! come back to me, Alice! 
Stay with me but one more year and I can give you up with- 
out a murmur! Heaven does not need you as I need you.” 

The agonized cry for a moment arrested the dying spark, 
and for an instant it flashed up anew, brightening the smile 
into ineffable peace. 

“You have made me very happy, John; but the time is 
fully come for me to go hence,” came from the beautiful, 
tender lips. “Try to give me up, John!” 

“Give you up? oh, Alice! just as I am learning how much 
life is with you. Just a little longer, Alice: just a little 
longer!” 

“Nay, nay, beloved. Can you not see the gates standing 
ajar for me to enter? But, John, you will come soon.” 

He did not mean to be selfish in his grief, but he had for- 
gotten the lonely, desolate child kneeling at the other side of 
her dying mother. 

“Mamma, have you no word for me in this last moment?” 
she wailed. 

“My last and best for you, my darling. Oh, in this last 
moment my heart turns to you in unutterable longing and 
tenderness; but promise me one thing: when obstacles con- 
front you and temptation assails you, let your mind turn back 
to this hour, that a thought of me may restrain you. Will 
you promise me this, Clare?” 

“Yes, yes, mamma, I promise.” 

“And Clare, when you are left all alone then send for 
Douglas Maitland. I have long felt that he loves you. Will 
you also do this?” 

“If I can, mamma, yes I will try.” 

“Then I have finished. I leave you two to one another.” 

“She is gone, papa! She is gone! Who can say which 
needed her most — you in your old age or I her child to whom 
the long future must be a blank without her?” 

“My child, you were her last gift to me,” he said, clasping 
her in his arms. 

Of death Ralph Iron has truthfully said: “There is a 


162 


PASSION PAST. 


stranger whose coming they say, is worse than all the ills of 
life, from whose presence we flee away trembling; but he 
comes very tenderly sometimes. He smoothes out the 
wrinkles that are in the forehead, and fixes the passing smile. 
To such as you, time brings no age! you die with the purity 
and innocence of childhood upon you.” 

To Alice Wilcox he came thus; and they laid her away with 
loving tender hands beside her father and mother in the city 
of the dead on the hillside — the cold December winds singing 
a mournful requium in the ears of the two mourners as they 
turned away to go back to their desolate home. 

Kind friends also remained at the cottage to hide away those 
ghastly evidences of this call of the silent messenger; and the 
many little tokens which must call up so many sorrowful 
memories of the loved ones no longer there — a half worn 
glove, a tiny slipper, a dainty handkerchief, the armed chair, 
and many other little trifles which bring such a thrill of agony 
to the heart. 

Although the keenest sense of desolation does not come 
until afterward when day by day passes and she returns no 
more, who can describe the feeling of loneliness that comes 
over us, as we again cross the threshold of our home after 
having consigned to Mother Earth the form of our beloved 
dead ? 

John never rallied from the blow. Now verging upon 
seventy he grew weary of life when the pride of his faithful 
old heart was taken. Thus one by one were the links 
severed which bound Clare to Hollidale. 

To Douglas she wrote at this period: 

“The waters have passed over my soul and the floods over- 
flow me.” 

Soon his answer came hopeful and strong: 

“The Lord sitteth upon the flood. He maketh the storm 
a calm so that the waves thereof are still.” 

The warm bright days of February, always so deceiving, 
came and one night the doetor, now daily growing more 
feeble, retired early, leaving Clare alone with her books. 


PASSION PAST. 


163 


She heard the click of the gate latch, doubtless announcing 
the coming of a neighbor, and she laid the book on the table 
by her, thinking to answer the door bell, as the servants were 
in their own quarters, in the rear of the house. 

I don’t know the step. I’ll go down so papa will not be 
disturbed,” she thought descending the stairs. 

“Douglas, oh, Douglas!” 

He clasped both of the little hands in his. 

“Clare,” he said in the old sweet voice, “I did not ask you 
if I might come, for I felt that you would say no. Would 
you have done so Clare?” 

She uttered a low cry and sank into a chair covering her 
face with her hands. 

“Ah, Clare, I ought to have been content with what you 
wrote, but I felt that I could stay away no longer, in your 
trouble.” 

“Forgive me, Douglas. Of course I am glad to see you. 
It was such a surprise, that’s all. Come with me to the par- 
lor. My father has retired, and so 1 am all alone.” 

In the hour or two he stayed, she told him of the many 
changes in her life, and when they parted he said: 

“I shall start home by the first train; but may I see you 
again, Clare?” 

“Yes, come around to breakfast at eight. I want you to 
meet my father, Douglas.” 

“I shall be glad to come, Clare,” his eyes brightening with 
pleasure and hope. 

“You must see for yourself, Douglas, where my duty 
lies,” she said to him next morning, looking significantly in 
the direction of the feeble man, whose thin face seemed thin- 
ner than ever. 

“But afterwards, Clare, my beloved? I have waited two 
years,” he said, gently. 

“There must be no afterwards for us, I fear. Don’t ask 
me.” 


164 


PASSION PAST. 


“I can not think you are altogether indifferent, Clare.” 

She stood before him, her hands clasped together, her 
great, sorrowful eyes looking into his. 

“You surely have not forgotten, Douglas!” 

“Clare, do you mean to tell me you have not forgotten that 
man? You do not love him?” 

“Love him? No! But, I can never give my promise to 
another until I have seen him once more, to prove if he has 
the power to cause one heart throb either of regret or hatred. 
If I can look upon his face without this, I will write and tell 
you.” 

“You are a strange girl. I thought these two years had 
softened your feelings,” he said. 

With that they parted, he to go back to his lonely home, 
she to take up the daily routine of life, until two weeks later 
Charlie and Lizzie, with the children, came for a week. 

Later in March came one of those sudden changes in the 
temperature, common to the climate, the mercury falling, in 
an hour, from the “twenties” to zero. 

It had long been a recorded fact that poor old Granny 
Carter always chose the most inopportune periods for her at- 
tacks of bronchitis, though more than likely the disagreeable 
changes in the weather had something to do with it. These 
attacks meant a call for the professional aid of Doctor Wil 
cox, who had never failed to respond, nor did he now. 
Lately, he had at times been almost prostrated by a feeling 
of languor and numbness, in a measure traceable to the inact- 
ive, sedentary life of the past months. 

It was with a more dead than alive feeling, he lay on the 
sofa near the fire in the sitting room, and, bright and warm 
as it was, he shivered with cold. The black robed figure 
hovered about him, anxiously trying by every little attention 
to make him more comfortable. 

“Now,” she said, “I know you will feel better after taking 
a nap and I shall see that you are not disturbed till tea time. ” 

*‘Sit down here by me little daughter. I have something 


PASSION PAST. 


165 


to say to you this evening.” Something about him sent a 
chill of uneasiness through her own heart as she complied. 

“1 fear Clare that it will not be pleasant news,” he said 
with infinite tenderness. 

“Then why not put it off until you are better? though, to 
hear pleasant news would seem strange and unusual indeed. 
Father, you are not seriously ill ! do not tell me that.” 

“My own professional knowledge has long warned me 
Clare that the end is not far off: though for your sake alone 
I wish it were not true.” 

“It can not be true. If you are also taken I care not what 
becomes of me. The last tie will be broken,” she sobbed. 

“Clare, now I have begun, I must go on. My father died 
from a paralytic stroke and I shall go in the same way. Now 
it is over 1 will try to take a nap for I feel strangely 
fatigued this evening.” 

“It must be the sudden change father. Hear the March 
winds how shrilly they whistle around the house!” 

Hardly had he sunk into a quiet sleep when Mollie, the old 
housekeeper, entered the room and Clare raised a warning 
finger, but too late, for the sleeper drowsily opened his eyes. 

4 4 Who is it asking for me, Clare ? I hear a voice. Who is 
it Mollie?” 

“Shuah, massa, I done tole her she was’n come in huh, an’ 
she say no brack niggah keep her from seein’ de doctah,” the 
woman cried angrily as a great burly female form wedged its 
way through the half open door. 

4 4 Ask her what she wants, daughter, and tell her I am ill.” 

“Its me an’ I want you,” cried the woman in a shrill voice. 
“Granny Carter’s been tuk bad! chokin’ awful, an’ wants you 
to onest.” 

“He shall not go out tonight for Granny Carter nor any 
one else!” the girl cried as her father half rose to his feet. 

“I think I had better go, dear, as poor, old Granny always 

xpects me. She thinks I can give her relief when no other 


166 


PASSION PAST. 


can — and you know she nursed your mother when she was so 
ill.” 

The quick tears sprang to her eyes as she said: “You for- 
get how ill you are, papa. I hope you may be able to give 
poor, old Granny relief,” helping him into his overcoat. 


CHAPTER- XXIII. 


’Tis a little thing 

To give a cup of water; yet its draught 
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, 

May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
More exquisite than when nectarian juice 
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. 

It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
Of common comfort, which, by daily use, 

Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear 
Of him who thought to die unmourned, ’twill fall 
Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye 
With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand 
To know the bonds of fellowship again; 

And shed on the departing soul a sense 
More precious than the benison of friends 
About the honored death-bed of the rich, 

To him who else were lonely, that another 
Of the great family is near and feels. 

r 

“It was probably some one very like old Granny who 
inspired Talfourd to write those lines,” mused the girl as she 
stood at the window and watched the feeble form bending 
like a reed against the fierce March wind. 

“Alone! how can I bear it?” she sobbed, turning again to 
the fire, and sinking into a chair. She had never felt more 
wretched than now, with her step-father’s words fresh in her 
ears; words which she now felt to be true. 

“Aunt Mollie,” she said to the cook, who came in answer 
to the little bell on the table near her, — “keep everything as 
nice as you can please, until papa returns: I shall wait for 
him. 11 And thus after having looked, with housewifely care, 
after their animal wants she sank back to her weary waiting. 

“Somehow I feel tonight as if the earth were slipping 
away from beneath my feet, and I am about to be launched 


168 


PASSION PAST. 


into unknown waters without an anchor to keep me from 
drowning,” she said sadly, and as she sat alone with all so 
still except the moaning of the winds around the house, which 
chilled her like a precursor of coming evil, there came a shade 
of deep reflection on her brow for she felt that a crisis w r as 
coming in her life and she was powerless to meet it. 

Accustomed, as she had been since her mother’s illness, to 
thinking and acting for herself; for the mild restraint thrown 
over her by her step father had been scarcely felt, yet at this 
moment, the complex problems of natural philosophy, to the 
consideration of which, her mind had always eagerly turned, 
seemed more simple than the difficulties confronting her. 

Supposing this to be true that the last link was so soon to 
be severed she must at once leave Hollidale. Was it a pre- 
science of just such a struggle as this, that made Alice Wil- 
cox beg that her passionate child, might, in any great tempta- 
tion, turn back to that sad death bed scene ? 

The blaze from the coal fire had died away, and too preoc- 
cupied with her moody thoughts to notice the need of lamps, 
the room was full of dusky shadows. At last, as hour after 
hour slipped by, and her step-father came not, she gradually 
gave way to the overpowering sense of loneliness and fatigue 
and fell asleep, her head resting on the little table by her. 

The closing of the front door aroused her, and as the mists 
cleared away from her dull senses, she heard the slow, drag- 
ging steps of her father. 

Hastily striking a light, she turned the glare full upon him 
and saw that he was ghastly white. 

“Oh, papa!” in a scared voice; “forgive me for going to 
sleep and having everything so dark and cold. I shall have 
a big blaze in a minute, though; can it possibly be so late as 
that?” glancing at the clock. 

“Yes, darling, the town clock struck ten before I left 
Granny Carter.” 

“Oh, yes, how is she papa? better, I hope!” 

“Much better!” he answered wearily; “so much better that 
she will never need me again.” 

“Oh, papa!” too shocked to say more. 


PASSION PAST. 


169 


“Should we not rejoice that her soul is set at liberty and 
her body spared further suffering?” 

“She can not be dead! poor old Granny Carter! and I was 
unwilling for you to go to her to-night!” 

“I closed her poor tired eyes a few minutes ago! — how 
cold it is to-night, daughter!” 

“Yes, and you are looking wretchedly ill, papa. I will 
have Mollie bring you a hot supper. She has kept it ready.” 

“Merely a cup of hot coffee. 1 am much better off without 
eating.” Having finished, he arose saying: 

“1 shall go to bed at once. Good night, Clare,” but see- 
ing the greyish pallor in his face she clung to him. 

“Let me see if everything is comfortable for you, papa.” 

“Tut, tut, child! you should be in bed. Go at once. 1 
shall be all right. ” He bent over and kissed her, the caress 
sending a strange sensation over her for which she could not 
then account. 

He sat up until far into the night looking over his papers, 
although always in methodical order. 

At last he took out of his desk his last will and read it over 
carefully to assure himself once more that it was right; then 
he put it in a convenient place. The next thing he did was to 
write a letter to the Kinnes, leaving his stepdaughter to their 
care. All done he locked the drawer and arose to his feet and 
for a while walked slowly up and down the room. 

Whence does it come and whither does it flee away, this 
still invisible presence, that in such an hour as this, walks 
silently by our side, looks over our shoulder, and whispers in 
our ear: “The time is here! come!” This was not the first 
time he found himself looking into the eyes of the “King of 
Terrors.” For weeks he had felt his nearness; and all this 
day he was conscious of his hovering over him. Knowing he 
could no longer refuse to obey the call, he decided that he 
must prepare his child. 

When the time is upon us that the general, far-reaching 
“Man must die,” changes to the inexorable, “This night 
shall thy soul be demanded of thee,” then does the voice of 
the messenger seem cruel, the clutch of his icy fingers piti- 






170 


PASSION PAST 


less; but to this good man it was as if he were being gently 
folded in his mother’s arms. So, like a child, who has lost 
its way and is weary, he knelt down before his bed. 

And thus they found him. He was not, for God took him! • 


But this I am assured 


That when the neighbors came the morrow morn, 
What time the wind had bated, and the sun 
Shone on the old man’s floor, they saw the smile 
He passed away in, and they said : “He looks 
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, 

And, with that rapturous smile, held out his arms 
To come to Him. 








CHAPTER XXIV. 


“Be advised; 

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot 
That it do singe yourself : We may outrun 
By violent swiftness, that which we run at, 

And lose of over running. Know you not 
The fire that mounts the liquor til’t run o’er 
' In running to augment it wastes it?” 

“Massilon says, people picture to themselves an imaginary 
happiness in elevated stations which they can not reach; and 
they believe the unattainable forms the very happiness they 
seek; but I, do not aspire to elevated stations: neither have I 
any desire for the unattainable, unless it were oblivion — for- 
getfulness!” 

The speaker sat at a window of a private residence in New 
York city looking out on the busy, hurrying throng. 

“I have no ambition. It is not ambition that urges me on,” 
she said as if obstinately contending the point with her own 
self. “Another tells us ambition has no limits and inasmuch 
as we follow its summons, will happiness avoid us? No! it is 
not that, that urges me on, for rather than follow out this 
resolution, I would lie down beside mother and father and 
sleep forever!” 

She arose in her agitation and walked about the room 
clasping her hands spasmodically. “The days and years 
allotted to man seem to have been crowded into the twenty-one 
years I have lived and left me without any hope or wish for 
the future,” she mused sadly. “But, knowing they must be 
lived I can do nothing but drift along. Idleness would kill 
me or drive me to insanity, so nothing is left for me but this 
for which nature, talents and education have fitted me. I must 


172 


PASSION PAST. 


not look back. I dare not look forward. I can not call to 
him so long as ray soul is filled with such unrest.” 

Resolved to give herself no more time for thought, she 
hastily changed her dress and put on a bonnet and veil of 
heavy crape. Of course, the reader has recognized in the 
lovely speaker our friend, Clare Fontaine, who, upon the 
death of her step-father, suddenly resolved to put into imme- 
diate execution, an idea conceived two or three years before, 
to go to New York and enter the theatrical arena. 

She was now possessed of a handsome income, as her step- 
father had left everything unreservedly to her; so letting the 
house, fnrnished, to a trustworthy couple for an indefinite 
length of time, she went away, no one knew whither, taking 
a few thousand dollars with her for use, or future investment, 
and leaving the remainder as her father had secured it. 

“Ah, madmoiselle! punctual, I see,” was the greeting 
from the manager of the Madison Square Theatre, that after- 
noon as she was ushered into his presence. 

“Yes, two o’clock you said, I think. I always try to meet 
engagements punctually.” 

Evidently impressed by her beauty and superior air, he 
said warningly: “Madmoiselle, a lady of culture and educa- 
tion, such as you appear to be, can form no proper concep- 
tion of how unpleasant it may be for you to be thrown to- 
gether on terms of close intimacy with social inferiors such 
as you will find here.” 

“It is certainly not social distinction I seek,” she replied 
rather bitterly, “and if you will give me a trial I shall try to 
forget that my life ever has been otherwise than it now seems. 
I shall avoid the quicksands of which you warn me; for while 
here with the girls, I shall make myself one of them.” 

“It requires much hard work and possibly you may fail; 
but as you seem to have plenty of pluck and ambition 1 will 
give you a chance to-morrow at half past two,” and with a 
bow he dismissed her. 

So she plunged earnestly into her chosen work with the 
resolution of reaching the highest pinnacle of the profession. 
She wrote to Lizzie telling her of the step when too late to 


PASSION PAST. 


173 


recede. Shocked and grieved, her consin knew that expos- 
tulations were useless. 

But the hardest task left her was to tell Douglas whose 
disapproval she regretted more than all others. “Until I 
have learned to forget,” she said in conclusion, “I can not 
tell what the end may be. For your patience and love I can 
only say — God ble^s you.” 

Being now in the same city, she at times felt an irresistible 
longing to see W oodland and once she had gone closely veiled 
on a train to Woodlawn his home, hoping fortune would be 
so kind as to throw him across her path. 

“It is now four years since he was at Hollidale,” she said 
to herself. u Oh, if I could meet him, hear his voice without 
the agony and shame of that night: then I should feel that 
all desire for revenge were dead within me. But after all if 
he were at one of the antipodes and I at the other we should 
be just as likely to meet as here in this great jostling bustling 
New York.” 

One day the manager said to her: “One of the young la- 
dies acting a minor part has been taken suddenly ill, and I 
shall be glad if you will take her place as you suit the cast 
better than any we have. ” 

“Oh, 1 shall be pleased if I only can,” she replied readily. 

“There is very little in the part, merely to help fill up the 
cast,” he said assuringly. “Madamoiselle, I shall expect you 
at the rehearsal.” 

That night Clare peeped from behind the curtains upon the 
vast assembly that was being ushered in. Even one more 
accustomed to the footlights than she, might have felt ner- 
vous. Soon the time came for her to take her place with the 
others in the shadow of the stage scenery. She could, from 
this point of observation, look out over the audience; though 
unable to define one in all the sea of unknown faces. 

Suddenly, she felt as if the blood were becoming frozen in 
her veins, as her gaze became fixed upon a little group 
directly before her. Thus, after four long years of waiting 
she once more stood under the same roof with him! 

All the past rushed up before her; that night, to her so full 


174 


PASSION PAST. 


of horror, that she had tried to delude herself into believing 
she could sometime forget. But as she looked upon the 
debonair face she realized how false the illusion had been. 

Woodland seemed scarcely a day older for time deals 
gently with such faces. Clare could almost fancy herself back 
at Oak cottage sitting beside him reading Aurora Leigh. As 
he raised his hand to bestow some trifling courtesy on his 
companion, the act drew her attention to her; and in spite of 
the burning jealousy in her heart she knew she had never 
seen a fairer sweeter face than that of Ethel Woodland. Her 
dress was of soft filmy white and blue, and a dainty little 
affair of lace and flowers on the golden head. 

Clare stepped further back into the shadow as a sudden 
fear siezed her that he might see and recognize her. But time 
produces greater changes in the female face and form than in 
the other sex, and she trusted to the surroundings, the two 
inches added to her height, the stage paint and powder and 
bright fantastic dress to dispell any suspicions. 

No one excepting Douglas and the Kinnes knew that Clare 
Fontaine and Madmoiselle D’Harleville were identical: and 
so her presence in New York was a secret. 

The moment the curtain fell she hurried home to fight out 
alone this battle that had so suddenly come up. 

She sat for hours trying to think it all out and in the end 
all else was laid aside and forgotten but the determination to 
take some step toward the fulfillment of the vow made four 
years before. 

When morning came she asked that her breakfast might 
be sent to her room; then sending a message to the “Man- 
ager,” asking him to excuse her for the day, she again sat 
down to think — think! 

4 ‘I can now understand why this demon of unrest urged 
me to come to New York,” she muttered, while making a 
pretense of eating. “It was not that I wished to forget! 
What seemed so vague and intangible all along now stands 
out before everything else now I have seen him. With that 
glimpse comes back the old determination to wring hisjie&rt 


PASSION PAST. 


175 


as he did mine; but how? for everything but Horace Wood- 
land in the flesh seems as far off as ever.” 

Like some caged animal longingfor action she walked rest- 
lessly about the room. 

u If I could but go to his home in some sort of a disguise; 
then, once upon the field, the evil one, to whom I seem to be 
giving myself, might help his own,” she thought. 

The cry of “Times!” “Herald!” arrested her attention at 
that instant and raising the window she called to the boy for 
one. 

For the young lady who does not care for sensational mar- 
riages, murders and sporting news which seem to delight the 
versatile mind of the reporter, it does not take long to look 
over a daily paper. 

“My money thrown away after all for there’s not one item 
of interest in it,” she said, mechanically turning it over. 
There is one thing that possesses a fascination for us at times, 
and it is the columns of “Wants” and “Personals.” 

For full five minutes Clare stared at the paper in her hand, 
then she arose and finding a pair of scissors cut out a tiny 
slip and put it in her pocket saying with white lips: 

“The opportunity has come, I think, shall I avail myself of 
it?” Now had come the temptation, yet not a thought of the 
promise made to her dying mother crossed her mind. 

No one would have recognized the young actress in the 
figure that stood before the mirror critically surveying her- 
self an hour later. The hair was silvery white, the skin daz- 
zlingly fair, while a pair of faintly tinted glasses softened the 
expression of the dark eyes. A widow’s ruche showed in a 
narrow line inside the crape bonnet and the dress was of 
Nun’s veiling. 

“After all there’s not much in the disguise,” she muttered. 
“I shall try, any way, although no sensible mother will take 
me without credentials for fear I might steal her children. 
But, I am going to see inside Horace Woodland’s home. 

Now, for a respectable alias! Smith? Brown? or Jones? 
No! save me from the trio! King! Now King sounds 
exceedingly proper. I’m sure Annie King sounds far better 


176 


PASSION PAST. 


than Sallie Smith, Belinda Brown or Jane Jones. I really 
could not allow a Jane Jones to nurse my children. A pretty 
name impresses children as much as a pretty face. I never 
could understand why Mrs. Woods should make such a hor- 
rible caricature of Madame Vine, for she must have been re- 
pulsive to her own children.” 

She was speaking half -aloud and the sound of her voice 
aroused her to another possible danger. 

“1 don’t think Horace Woodland would recognize my 
voice, thanks to careful training, which enables me to change 
it at will ; but I must surely do something more to my face. 
It looks far too young. But by drawing a line or two along 
the forehead and about the mouth, I look thirty at least; and 
with the veil at a proper angle I think I can manage every- 
thing but that of securing the situation of nursery governess 
to Mrs. Horace Woodland’s two children of three.” 

And having taken all precautions possible for immediate 
safety, she locked her door and left the house. 

At half past eleven Clare Fontaine walked up to the front 
entrance of Horace Woodland’s home at Woodlawn, saying 
to herself: 

“No doubt I am making a grievous mistake in the beginning 
by coming to the front entrance, for 1 suppose applicants for 
the situation of nursery governess should go to the rear; but 
one must draw the line somewhere. I wonder what the serv 
ant will think of the audacity of a nursery governess sending 
up her card ? Ah! Horace Woodland, is it after all but 
another revolution of the wheel of destiny that brings me to 
your house to-day, I wonder?” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come; 

And do not spread the compost on the weeds, 

To make them ranker. 

While wailing for admittance she heard the merry voices 
of children near, and looking about her to ascertain from 
whence they came, saw them seated beside their father com- 
ing along a carriage drive. Reaching the gate he lifted 
both to the ground, saying: 

“Now run to mamma and tell her to look for me to lunch. 
Good bye! Good bye!” and with an answering “Good bye 
papa!” from each, they scampered back to do his bidding. 

For a moment Clare felt dizzy and faint and would have 
fallen had she not caught at the stone pillar near her; but she 
soon regained her self control, feeling secure in her disguise. 
If Woodland had noticed the slender, black robed figure he 
would have taken her to be some acquaintance of his wife’s, 
waiting to be admitted. 

“Is Mrs. Woodland at home?” she asked of the servant. 

He looked doubtful for an instant as if trying to determine 
the social grade of the visitor. 

“Mrs. Woodland is packing her trunks to go away and I’m 
not sure she’ll see you. ” 

“Oh I am so anxious to see her if only for a moment. Do 
ask her, though if she’s very busy — ” 

“If you will come into the drawing room madame. What 
name shall I say. ?” 

For answer she laid a card on the silver waiter. 

Then she looked about her. 


178 


PASSION PAST. 


The most idealistic conception of what his home was like 
fell far short of this beautiful place How different from 
the stuffy little parlor and old-fashioned furniture of Oak 
cottage! And Ethel Hereford had given her husband all this! 

“It is charming almost beyond compare showing the un- 
mistakable presence of a graceful, refined woman, though 
one is hardly sure in what lay the charm. ” 

The marks of little ones could be seen for a child’s toy had 
been thrown on the floor and forgotten. But a further study 
of the pretty room was interrupted for she heard a light step 
and a lady entered. It was Ethel, and the younger lady felt 
a stifled sensation in her throat as if her breath were leaving 
her as she looked into the eyes of her unconscious rival 
whose home she had come to despoil. 

Ethel advanced with a questioning look in her blue eyes 
and Clare put the clipping in her hand, saying quietly: 

“I came madam, in answer to this,” and the incredulous 
look of the other brought the blood to her cheek. 

“Do pardon me, please, Mrs. King, if I have seemed rude. 
You seem so unlike the others who have come that I thought 
there must be a mistake,” she hastened to say, though she 
wondered why this tall elegant lady had come for the inferior 
position of nursery governess. 

“Probably the place has been filled; if not, 1 hope you 
will not refuse to me a trial,” she replied, while covertly 
studying the face as if trying to determine its most vulnera- 
ble point. The eyes and lips were tender, so drawing a black 
bordered handkerchief from her pocket she gently wiped her 
own eyes as if to dry a gathering mist. 

“Oh no, no, Mrs. King!” cried the little lady. “I have so 
little time to decide for it is this way: My nurse left me at 
a most inopportune time for Mr. Woodland and I have to 
leave for Richmond immediately in answer to a telegram re- 
ceived last night from his mother who is very ill with typhoid 
fever. I cannot take my children from a healthy home to an 
infected one — and so far, 1 have not been very favorably im- 
pressed with applicants.” 

“Let me hope you now are Mrs. Woodland,” said Mrs. 


PASSION PAST. 


179 


Kins: persuasively, with a little suggestive motion of the 
handkerchief. “My life has been an exceptionally sorrowful 
one, Mrs. Woodland, and if there is nothing objectionable in 
my appearance, this would be a haven of rest to me.” 

“Objectionable? surely not Mrs. King,” the sympathetic 
tears springing to her own eyes, ‘'but if I should be so for- 
tunate as to secure you, do you understand what such work 
would be to a person in your position?” 

4 T love children and the work would be very pleasant Mrs. 
Woodland,” with another application of the symbol of 
mourning. 

“I take you to be a widow Mrs. King; will you tell me 
something of yourself?” Ethel asked gently. 

“I lost my best friend in March. I am of southern birth 
and after my bereavement I determined to leave the place so 
full of sad associations and come north amid new scenes. The 
necessity of finding a situation without delay and the thought 
that the companionship of little children might help me for- 
get my sorrows prompted me to come to you though with 
little hope of success for I am without credentials.” 

“They are usually expected I believe though my children 
are not like my jewels which might be stolen: Yet, my hus- 
band often tells me I trust appearances too far.” 

“It is not at all times prudent: though for one who makes 
human nature a study it is different. Yours is a face one 
could always trust I am sure. As for stealing your jewels, I 
could not wear them, and I should not know what to do with 
your children away from their home,” she concluded with a 
laugh. 

“If I could only speak to my husband,” the other said in a 
tone of regret and hesitation. 

“I am unfortunate in having missed him,” said Clare rising, 
“and am sorry to have taken so much of your valuable 
time — . ” 

“Don’t go just now Mrs. King. Ido feel strongly inclined 
to trust you,” said the tender hearted little woman wavering 
in her prudent resolution. “Ah I have it Mrs. King! “I 
will call the children and leave the matter for- them to decide. 


180 


PASSION PAST. 


I think one can trust so much to the instincts of children,” 
she said wisely. 

“I think it is more to lull to sleep any misgivings or scruples 
about acting in the matter without my husband’s advice,” 
she continued apologetically, after giving the order to the 
servant. “ Ah here they come my twin babies,” and surely 
any mother might be proud of the picture presented in the 
doorway. 

Clare drew her veil down to shade her face, for she felt 
that this might indeed prove a crucial test. She saw at once 
the child of her dream of four years ago, in the little girl; 
also, that she was a baby likeness of her father, while the 
boy had the blue eyes and golden hair of his mother. 

“Horace Woodland can be more surely stabbed through 
his little girl,” she thought at once. 

“Mrs. Woodland,” said the servant at the moment, “there’s 
another of them askin’ to see you about the place.” 

“I can not be disturbed just now, Mary, tell her to wait a 
few minutes.” 

“She says she will come back in half an hour.” 

“I must spare her the trouble of doing that by seeing her 
at once if you will excuse me for a moment, Mrs. King.” 

“Why, certainly, Mrs. Woodland, if, in your absence, you 
will allow me to try and make friends with your little ones.” 

‘ C I shall be glad. I haven’t presented them to you, Mrs. 
King. My son Percy and his sister Coralie.” 

“I am sure we shall be great friends,” clasping the two lit- 
tle hands the mother placed in her own. 

“Your mamma says, Coralie, that if you like me, I may 
come and live with you and Percy while she and papa go to 
see grandmamma,” she began. The child regarded her 
gravely for a moment as if weighing the matter in all its 
bearings, then asked a little doubtfully: 

“Will you dwess Susie and Polly for me?” 

“I am sure, Coralie, nothing will delight me more than 
looking after the wardrobes of those two ladies if you will 
tell me who Susie and Polly are. ” 


PASSION PAST. 181 

“They are my two dolls,” with a suspicion of distrust of 
one requiring such enlightenment. 

“I can dress dolls beautifully; can make all kinds of pretty 
dresses — ball dresses, court dress, tea gowns and everything.” 

“Then you may stay, and, I dess that’s all.” 

When Ethel returned she found her boy standing apart 
from the two, a little frown on the baby face, showing dis- 
approval of the weak yielding on the part of his more im- 
pressionable sister. 

“Why, Percy,” she asked, drawing the child to her, “what 
weighty problem has my little boy under consideration that 
brings such a frown to his face?” 

“1 don’t like her! I don’t like that lady,” he broke out, 
throwing his arms around his mother’s neck. “1 love only 
you, mamma! Please don’t leave me.” 

“Why, my darling, I must go with papa to see poor, sick 
grandmamma. You have been very rude to the lady, Percy. 
You must ask her to forgive you and tell her you will be glad 
to have her stay. ” 

With a slight revulsion he drew back; then as if in obedi- 
ence to an innate sense of politeness he advanced, timidly say- 
ing: 

“If you want me to, I will try to like you.” 

“Suppose we say five o’clock,” said Ethel, as Clare arose 
to go. “As we leave at six I can give you details as to the 
work. I wish you to be happy with my little ones while I 
am away from them.”. 

Without a suspicion of distrust she stood on the step, a 
childish hand clasped in each of her own, and looked after the 
slender, graceful figure of the girl about to invade the sanctity 
of her little dove cote. 

Clare, driven on by the imaginary wrongs of her ov n cre- 
ation, and feeling that she had now gone too far to recede, 
congratulated herself upon her success as she returned to her 
temporary home. 

Entering the hall she found two letters lying on the table 
which she saw were from Douglas and Lizzie. The latter 


182 


PASSION PAST. 


wrote: “I saw Hiram Thornton the other day and he is still 
inconsolable over the loss of his little girl. ” 

What was there in the few words that made Clare spring 
to her feet in violent agitation ? In an instant it flashed upon 
her, the plan for carrying out her revenge; a plan so diabolical 
as to exceed all previous conceptions. 

And now began her preparation. Hastily looking over her 
effects she destroyed all evidence of her identitj^. First, she 
would dispose of the few articles of wearing apparel which 
might betray her, and with this end in view, she went to the 
dressing room of the theatre a few doors away and secured 
a disguise from the numerous ones there; and a half hour 
later, the dealer in old clothes would have failed to discover 
that the poorly attired old woman with a large traveling bag 
in her hand, was different from hundreds of her kind. She 
was soon back in her room, richer by a few coins than before: 
then she sat down to once more take a survey of the line 
marked out. 

A retrospective glance assured her that she had burnt the 
bridges on which she had crossed. Now, but one danger 
menaced her — a possible encounter with Woodland that 
evening. The success, in being able to carry out her plans, 
was due to the expediency with which she designed and exe- 
cuted, as she alone knew the mainspring impelling her on. 
At a later period, suspicion might be directed toward her, 
and detective skill put on her track which would be hard to 
elude. 

Her eyes fell upon Douglas’ letter, which she had forgotten; 
and, for the first time during their correspondence, she took 
it up with an impatient exclamation, resolved at first to throw 
it into the grate unread, there to be consumed with other 
papers she meant to destroy. 

“Poor Douglas! he has been true tome, after all,” she mut- 
tered, at last breaking the seal. “Yes, here are the twelve 
goody goody pages as usual, and I tell you 1 will not read 
them. Just a word here and there! Poor old faithful 
friend!” as if by this little tribute to stifle the voice in her 
heart that pleaded for him. 


PASSION PAST. 


183 


“No!” she cried, a sudden glow leaping into her black eyes, 
as the ghost of former days again stood before her in all its 
horrible nakedness, “I’ll not listen to you. I’ve gone too far 
to recede — far enough to taste the sweetness of revenge now 
within my grasp,” and she tossed the sheets one by one into 
the grate.” 

“Ah, what is this he writes of our young literary aspirant? 
1 will take a moment to read it. I wonder why it is she and 
Douglas couldn’t have loved one another? Then everything 
would be as it should be. ” 

“Clare, I have a letter from Florence Barrett and she 
writes: 

“I know you will be glad to hear that D , publisher, 

has agreed to bring out my first literary work, under the title 
of “Hermione.” Ambition from this time must claim me 
for her own — a willing captive — a happy old maid! As if 
woman could be anything else when given the choice of this 
and becoming a slave to man’s caprice! Charles has called 
several times lately. When I look at him now, 1 thank the 
little mother anew for having so disillusioned me, for, stript 
of his wealth he would be a very ordinary individual, indeed. 
I suspect that she knew the social and financial advantages 
had thrown a glamour over me and conceived this plan to 
open my eyes. But it was not to say this 1 referred to him. 

Three days after his last visit when he pleaded with me 
to reconsider my decision, he renewed his engagement 
with the young lady whom he had abandoned. I now feel 
that matters are properly adjusted, though, I could hardly 
repress a smile on receiving her wedding cards that but 
meant a last effort to show exultation over a vanquished foe. 
Yet she must feel that I could take him from her even at the 
alter.” 

“1 should regret to know, Clare, that this ambition should 
ever rob my young friend of her truly lovable nature. 1 do 
not like the cynical tone — ” 

“Enough! I am in no mood Tor your moralizing today,” 


184 


Passion past. 


the girl said abruptly, flinging the sheet, now suddenly be- 
coming offensive, into the grate. And striking a match, she 
watched the letter burn until it was reduced to a little pile of 
grey ashes. So was one more link of the chain which bound 
her to her innocent past broken. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


The very fowls in the barnyard always felt the difference 
between the cherry voice of Hiram and the hard rasping- 
tones of his wife. Each morning they would anxiously 
watch the kitchen door to see from which they were to get 
their morning meal. If the tall, gaunt form appeared, they 
would huddle together in fear and trembling. 

Even those two supreme rulers, the antiquated gobbler and 
Plymouth Rock rooster would feel a sinking sensation about 
their hearts at her appearance, feeling moreforciby impressed 
each time that their own days were surely decreasing. 

On the morning succeeding Glennie’s flight from the cot- 
tage, they were as usual cautiously watching the kitchen door, 
and at last heard the high pitched voice: 

“Well, well! Fur onest we’ve overslep ourselves. Hiram, 
you make a Are in the stove an’ put on the kittle while I git 
one uv them white pullets to .fry fur breakfast. They’re 
jist a nice fryin’ size now, so much nicer’n them pesky black 
roosters. I’ll hev to send a dozen or two uv them to market 
Saturday. ” 

As this death knell fell upon all, the elderly members of 
the brood rushed forward to the picket fence separating them 
from the kitchen yard; while in the rear followed the plump 
pullets of divers colors, buoyed up with renewed hope and 
looking with disdain upon their less favored brothers of the 
raven plumage. 

This morning Aunt Rachael scattered the corn with an un- 
usually lavish hand; through it all, having her eyetixedon the 
loveliest pullet of the lot: then, a quick bend of the knee, two 


186 


PASSION PAST. 


or three circles in the air and another is added to her victims. 

“Yes, es sure es my name’s Rachael Thornton I’ll wring a 
dozen uv yer heads off before a week,” and with this consola- 
tory parting the young roosters with a sorrowful look at the 
trophy in her hand slink away to the hidden recesses of the 
barn. 

“Here’s yer fire Rachael!” cried the cheery voice. “I’ve 
filled the tea kettle an’ the wood box with fresh water. So 
now, I’ll go an’ feed the horses an’ hogs while ye git break- 
fast.” 

“Hedn’t ye better take the pail an’ milk the cows? but no, 
ye needn’t mind tell after breakfast.” 

He retraced his steps pausing in the door to ask : 

“Aint it time Glennie was stirrin’ Rachael? You know she 
was ailin’ last night. ” 

“Go ’long, Hiram, an’ feed the things. I’ll ast ’er in a 
minit, es soon es I git the breakfast to cookin’. I wasafeard 
he’d be fool enough to go trapsin’ up stairs an’ she d let the 
cat out’n the bag,” she confided to herself, as she watched 
the shambling form a moment. 

“Now the chicken’s fryin’. I’ll run to the milk house for 
the cream an’ butter,” she said, a few minutes later. “Well 
now, it is curious I hevn’t hurd that girl movin’ about, but 
I’ll wait till I cum back to call ’er. I swan ye c’d cut this 
cream with a knife, it’s so thick! I’ll take some pickles, a 
pun’kin pie an’ a apple one. Mebbe she’ll eat a bit uv it, 
’though fur the matter uv that she’ll be hungry enough to eat 
anything this mornin’.” 

With her arms filled with the above delicacies, she hurried 
up the path and met her husband at the door. 

“Now you, Hiram!” called the shrill voice, “hurry right 
up an’ wash yersef an’ I’ll hev a breakfast on the table fit’n 
fur Queen Victory in a minit.” 

4 ‘But, Rachael, where’s Glennie ?” the other asked. “I don’t 
hear ’er steppin’ around in ’er room an’ she’s always up with 
the sun, an’ I don’t see ’er nowhere.” 

“Mebbe she come down an’ went out while I was to the 
milk house,” she said, her voice now trembling with ill-dis- 


PASSION PAST. 187 

gmsed anxiety and fear. “S’pose, Hiram, you jist go to the 
fut uv the stairs an’ holler?” 

“Rachael, what’s come over ye this mornin’? Surely ye 
don’t think nothin’s happened to Glennie!” 

The woman could not trust her voice to answer with 
Hiram’s anxious kindly eyes turned upon her, and more puz- 
zled than ever, he went to do her bidding. Of course no 
merry reply came back to him in answer to his call, and now 
thoroughly alarmed he slowly ascended the short flight of 
steps, and then he paused a moment fearing to enter the 
room. 

“Sunthin’ keeps tellin’ me not to go in thar. I’m afeared 
she’s dead, my little gal.” and he shuddered and put his 
hands on the door to steady himself. “Some how it feels es 
if we was goin’ to open the baby’s grave,” he whispered 
hoarsely turning the knob and peering in. 

For a moment he stood motionless in the middle of the 
room, his eyes taking in the neat little white bed with its 
daintily ruffled pillows, the few cheap pretty pictures on the 
walls in their frames of white and gold. 

Perhaps the reader may understand the emotions which 
stirred the man’s soul as he stood like one in a dream, look- 
ing about him. No thought of calling her name. He felt as 
if standing in the charnel house of one loved and lost forever, 
who had been spirited away by sacriligious hands, and he was 
looking into the empty coffin. 

Although ignorant of the events of the day and night pre- 
vious, he knew that he was forever parted from the beautiful 
innocent child who had crept into his heart and made herself 
a part of his life. 

As we mechanically touch the soft baby tress, the unfin- 
ished work of a dear sister, the handkerchief or glove of a 
beloved mother, so did his fingers linger caressingly on her 
little waiting desk lying on the table, wander down the titles 
on the precious books arranged neatly upon the shelves, half of 
which he could scarcely read, much less understand, on the 
pillows where her sunny head had lain. Never until now 
had the simple, kind hearted old man so fully realized the 


188 


PASSION PAST. 


sanctity pervading the tiny nest from whence his little song 
bird had down forever. 

The quivering voice of his wife, startled for once out of its 
usual shrilly harshness, partially recalled his wandering 

senses. 

“Hiram, aint she up there? What ails ye man? Hev ye 
lost the last grain uv sense ye ever had ? Surely ye hev, that 
ye’d leave the breakfast spilin this way!” 

He dragged his feet that seemed shod with lead to the door. 

“Rachael! Rachael! What hev ye done to me? What hev 
ye done to me an’ her?” he cried, his kindly face convulsed 
with pain and terror. “Oh hev ye done this thing — rob- 
bed me uv my ewe lam’ that’s laid in my heart an’ kept it 
warm all these years? Hev ye, Rachael, bev .ye?” 

“What do ye mean, Hiram, talkin’ to me this way ? Hev 
I done what, ye fool? But I’m one, to stan’ here talkin’ to a 
crazy man! Git away an’ let me in.” Her calloused soul 
felt strangely touched at the man’s pitiful wail. 

Instantly her active mind already possessing the key note, 
grasped the meaning of it all. Glennie had fled! Driven to 
desperation by her cruelty, she had gone with the stranger 
with whom she had seen her yesterday. With a mind warped 
by passion and jealousy that had obtained such a mastery over 
her, it all seemed as clear as the noon-day sun. No other 
solution was possible. 

She was untouched by the feeling of sacred reverence which 
filled the soul of her husband. She saw nothing but a de- 
cently made bed, a cleanly swept floor, so many hardly earned 
dollars in the useless writing desk she had foolishly given her 
in one of her better moods, and a lot of trash in the way of 
books and the little adornments so dear to the refined femi- 
nine heart. 

With a muttered “Jist es I’ve always expected,” she 
grasped her husband’s arm. 

“Rouse yerself, Hiram Thornton! I c’d shake ye good! 
What’s come over ye? Nothin’s happened to the gal more’n 
I always knowed’d happen to ’er! Come ’long an’ git a cup 
o’ coffee an’ I’ll tell ye all about ’er.” 


PASSION PAST. 


189 


“Don’t ast me to eat’n drink nothin’ tel ye tell me what 
ye’ve done to my baby, Rachael. Hev ye druv her off es ye 
said ye would, sometime? Is yer guilty tongue paralyzed 
that ye don’t tell me?” 

“I say paralyzed, Hiram Thornton!” in turn maddened by 
the fierce threatening look that suddenly leaped into his eyes. 
“I’ve done nuthin’ to ’er, 1 tell ye agin!” ’Taint no fault 
of mine ef she’s chose the life ’er mother follered. Thank 
ther Lord she’s got none o’ my blood in ’er veins.” 

“I thank ’im for it too, when I think what a heart ye hev. 
What hes befell ’er that ye keep goin on so? an’ what hes her 
mother to do with 'er leavin’ home now?” 

The two had descended the stairs and now she turned, 
defiantly facing him. 

“The gal’s ’ike ’er mother, an’ ye’d a’ thought so ef ye’d a 
seen that strange man with ’er that I seen, yest’day an’ when 
I ask ’er who he was she said she did’ntknow.” 

“Tell me all about it,” a sudden calmness coming over him. 
In her excitement she did not try to soften the blow she was 
dealing her long tried husband; but like a gormand feasting 
on some rare delicacy which she enjoyed, she related the 
events of the previous day, in her own inimitable way. 


CHAPTER XXV11. 


“The news come kinder sudden like, but Rachael I will try 
To bear it for the Saviour’s sake. I’ll trust Him tel I die.” 

It was just as impossible for Rachael to recognize the innate 
purity of Glennie’s soul as for Hiram to understand how his 
jewel could possess a flaw. The reader must not think that 
she did not believe in those womanly attributes; that she was 
unwilling to concede them to be a part of the girl’s per- 
sonality; although it was hard for. her to define the distinction 
between the daughter and her guilty mother. 

“An’ then what Rachael?” he asked in a broken, hopeless 
way, sinking wearily into a chair near him. 

“As I was sayin’, I’d even got the dinner on a bilin’,” she 
continued, pouring out a cup of coffee, “an’ I went out an’ 
seen ’er come trapsin side an’ side up the road with some 
dandy. Come Hiram, I’ve poured out yer coffee an’ it’ll git 
cold. ” 

“Don’t ast me; 1 couldn’t drink it,” he repeated, fascinated 
in a way by the liberal manner in which she helped herself to 
the fried chicken and pancakes; for Rachael was not the per- 
son to sacrifice a strong, healthy appetite to a sickly sentiment 
over a girl who had turned out exactly as she had always ex- 
pected, a fact of which she was secretly glad. 

“Rachael, I’ve bin trvin’ to think who the feller could be. 
It must ’a bin one uv the chaps from Lick Branch, for she 
didn’t know nobody else,” he said, arousing at last from the 
half stupor into which he had fallen. 

“I wouldn’t be a born fool! Lick Branch, indeed!” she 
retorted, scornfully. “Didn’t I see his store close an’ ban’s 


PASSION PAST. 191 

es white es a baby’s? An’ then when I ast about him she 
lied an’ said she didn’t know.” 

kt \e surely didn’t ast ’er in a way that hed a bad meanin’ 
to it, or did ye ast ’er kind that she’d not he afeard to tell 
ye?” 

“Nuther one nor tuther,” she said, doggedly. “I knowed 
he was some dandy that wasn’t after her for no good, so I 
jist told ’er ef she didn’t tell me what he said to ’er, to go up 
stairs an’ stay tel she did; an’ I thought she was poutin’ up 
thar all this time. ” 

“I hope the Lord won’t lay it up agin ye for yer bad 
feelin’s about that poor child, Rachael, an’ yer tryin to make 
me believe she hed bin a seein’ this feller unbeknownedst. Ef 
ye c’d ’a heerd her yistrday wishin’ ye’d love ’er better — .’ 

“I can’t fer the life uv me see Hiram Thornton, why ye set 
sicli store by that base born thing. She’s everlastin on the 
go roamin roun’ for hours at a stretch. A body es sly as her 
c’d hev a dozen fellers danglin’ at ’er heels an’ us none the 
wiser,” she cried rising to her feet thoroughly exasperated. 
“ What’s bred in the born ’ll come out ’n the flesh an’ ef it 
aint him it ’ll be the next feller she’d meet — 

“Ef ye’d seen ’er cry when she was tellin’ uv a dream she 
hed about ’er ma the other night ye wouldn’t think uv ’er 
es a bad woman.” 

“Aint ites plain es the nose on yer face by the letter she 
writ?” amazed at his persistance. 

“I can’t understand: but I’m sure thar’s a mistake some- 
whar — that some body’s done sunthin’ to ’er out’n revenge or 
sun thin’. I’m goin’ down to the brook an’ ef 1 set thar awhile 
whar little Glennie sets so much, mebbe it ’ll come to me.” 

“Jist hear Hiram will ye?” she cried admiringly, taking in, 
in a sweeping glance an imaginary audience. “It soun’s for 
all the world like one uv ’er books! But,” returning to 
the old subject, “that’s nuther here nor nuther thar. Afore 
ye go, try an’ drink a little coffee.” 

“No not tel I hear uv that poor starved child, my lam’ thets 
kept my heart from breakin all these years.” 

“Be ye a born fool for sure?” ready at last to break down 


192 


PASSION PAST. 


in hysterical crying at seeing him starting to the little brook. 
“Ye can’t keep up your strength ef ye don’t eat — an’ ye hev 
no right to talk so to me when I’ve tried my best to bring the 
gal up proper an’ told ’er that feller ’d take ’er right along 
the broad’n crooked road ’er mother ’d went. I’ve stood all 
I kin’ so I hev Hiram Thornton, boo! hoo! hoo!” 

“Now I understand it all!” he cried despairingly. “You 
wicked woman! Ye’ve told that poor child what I was 
always afeared ye’d tell ’er. Ye’ve druv her away from all 
the home she ever knowed! Oh, woman, woman! I c’d never 
see tel now how good God was to take our own baby from 
us!” 

“But ye seem to forgit thet ef He hadn’t took our’n an’ 
sent this base born — . ” 

“Cuss ye! don’t ye say it no more. May the Lord cuss ve 
for the foul things yev’e said about my child to-day. May He 
cuss ye fer what ye’ve made my life ever since I knowed ye 
most! "May — . ” 

“Oh, Hiram!” she cried, shudderingly throwing out her 
hands pleadingly, as if to ward off the invectives the angry 
man was hurling at her. “Hes it come to this, an all on 
account uv her? Will ye ’low ’er to come between us in this 
way?” 

She cowered before him in fear and horror, rather than in 
self-abasement, for she could not understand the simple 
grandeur of this man’s soul, his love for things bright and 
lovable, and how, as an embodiment of all these he had en- 
shrined Glennie in the holiest recesses of his heart. 

“Don’t say them things to me agin, The awful things ye’ve 
said to me so-day. I can’t bear it no more. I’ve worked an’ 
slaved to make yer home comfortable, an’ now ye would cuss 
me. Hiram.” the rasping voice sinking away almost to a 
whisper, “ef ye’ll not ast the Lord to cuss me I’ll never 
speak a cross word to ye again, nor I’ll never say one about 
’er again. I ’spose I did like the little thing es well es I 
could love any thet’s not my own; an’ besides, Hiram, mebbe 
ye never knowed how my heart kindy froze when He tuk my 


PASSION PAST. 193 

own baby from me. I’d a bin a better woman ef she’d lived, 
’ts likely.” 

“I s’pose, after all, Rachael, thar’s a power o’ difference in 
people’s hearts,” his own voice growing tender. u Mebbe I 
never ’lowed for it. Yer heart froze, ye say, but I b’lieve 
mine kindy melted.” 

“Ye’ll not say it again, Hiram?” she called to him. 

“I was mad, Rachael, an’ a fool fer tryin’ to do the devil’s 
work an’ layin’ it on the Lord, forgittin’ the two don’t work 
that way. My head’s all shuck up, kindy dazed with ’er 
runnin’ away. Mebbe I kin think uv sum way to git ’er back 
home agin afore I come to the house. ” 

“Yer surely not goin’ without yer hat, Hiram? The hot 
sun ’d bake yer head an’ make it dazeder than it is.” 

She placed the old hat on his head very tenderly, so tend- 
erly that he looked up in wonder as the woman bent forward 
in a shy, awkward manner, then drew quickly back as if de- 
termined not to give way to the sudden impulse. 

He laid his hand on her arm in a timid, hesitating way, say- 
ing: 

“What is it, Rachael? What was ye thinkin’ uv?” 

“Oh, nothin’! I wasn’t thinkin’ uv nothin’,” and the 
pleased, hopeful look died out of his eyes as he turned away. 

“Yes, I was Hiram,” she said with a flush mounting to the 
roots of her sandy hair, and before he was conscious of her 
intention he felt a caress upon his lips. But now, wholly 
ashamed of the feminine weakness, she quickly lifted the 
corner of her apron as if to wipe away the touch of his lips 
upon her own, but a restraining hand was laid upon her’s. 

“Don’t ye do that, Rachael! Jistlet it stay thar, an’ mebbe 
it ’ll help to sof’n the hard feelins’ thets been between me an’ 
you? I don’t think ye’ve ever dun thet sence the baby died, 
hev ye? Don’t ye recollec’ when it was born how proud both 
uv us was, Rachael ? Then, when the poor little thing died 
how ye clung to yer old man that day ? I could never under- 
stand jist when the change come over ye, Rachael.” 

“It come on me so sudden-like— her dyin’ I mean, thet es 
the days follered the nights, an’ the nights follered the days, 


194 


PASSION PAST. 


thet I missed ’er more’n more.” The tears were falling fast 
now and she said, brokenly — “Oh, Hiram, mebbe I’ve been 
hard’n I thought.” 

“Ef it only hadn’t a tuk ye so long to find out thet the 
Lord felt sorry fer ye an’ sent the other’n in her place!” 

A little indrawing of her breath shows that she is not yet 
ready to accept the thought. But she felt too subdued now 
to give expression to an adverse thought; besides, there 
was a vacant, frozen look in his eyes that filled her with ter- 
ror and remorse, checking everything else but the desire to 
make amends. 

“1 never would ’a thought tel that minit that I c’d a done 
it, but he looked so droopin’ an’ pitiful thet I didn’t think tel 
it was over,” was her mental observation, as she stood in the 
yard and watched his receding form. In after years Rachael 
remembered with thankfulness that the last word she spoke 
to her husband on that morning was tender — her last act 
kind. 

“No, I’m not sorry now it’s done an’ ef Glennie comes back 
Til be good to her es I promised, for all she’s a sassy little 
upstart,” she went on, going back to the porch and drop- 
ping wearily into a chair, there to wait her husband’s return. 

A millstone and the human heart 
Are ever driven ’round; 

If they have nothing else to grind, 

They must themselves be ground. 

The morning passed away and the star of day was slowly 
making his way toward the zenith; the bright Sabbath day 
full of the merry songs of the birds, and still Hiram had not 
come. For the first time in her life, perhaps, the waiting 
woman was too tired of action to realize how the time was 
gliding by, and had it not been that she caught a passing 
glimpse of some of the country folk on their way to the Lick 
Branch meeting house to attend the eleven o’clock services, 
there is no telling when she would have aroused from the 
lethargy that had almost overcome her. 

She arose and rubbed her eyes, unwilling to own to the 
shameful fact that she had fallen asleep. 


PASSION PAST. 


195 


“It’s nigh onto ’leven, an’ Hiram not come yit. I’ll bet a 
cent he’s thro wed hisself in the water an’ drownded!” Oh, 
my heavens! 

“Oh, my Saviour in heaven, what’s ever come over ye, 
Hiram?” she screamed, clutching the man’s shoulder and 
looking into the vacant, staring eyes that seemed immovably 
fixed on a tiny cloud almost indiscernible for the hot, glitter- 
ing sun. 

“Hiram, dear, what ails ye? What air ye lookin’ at up 
thar? Oh my, how ye did scare me!” a little laugh issuing 
from her hot, dry lips, as if to reassure herself; for in that 
one look she saw a blow had fallen upon him, and upon her- 
self. 

“The hot sun hurts yer poor head, don’t it? an mebbe it’ll 
give ye the brain fever. Come to the house an’ I’ll put some 
brown paper soaked in salt an’ vinegar on it. It’s the cool- 
inest thing ye ever saw fur headache. Come!” 

He looked up with a dull vacant stare. “No, no, Rachael,” 
he murmured, half audibly, “I want to stay here an’ watch 
for ’er. She’s up thar, ye know. I seen ’er fly up an’ go 
behind that star. It’s the star what the three wise men fol- 
lered, ain’t it? I disremember their names.” 

And he pointed to the tiny cloud that could scarcely be 
seen for the dazzling sun. 

“Hiram! Hiram!” she groaned, “that’s not Glennie, an’ 
ye don’t see no star. That’s the hot, bilin’ sun blindin’ yer 
eyes an’ makin’ yer poor hed fit’n to bust with pain. Don’t 
ye know it’s Sunday, Hiram, an’ ye hevn’t got yer clean 
close on yit? Do come now an’ when Glennie comes back 
we’ll never let ’er go again — never!” 

“She’s never cornin’ back; an’ I tell ye I seen er fly away 
up thar. Thar she be now! At first she jist looked like a 
little bird sett’n on that telegraphic wire, an’ all to oncst she 
flew off’n it to them trees, a beckonin’ me to foller ’er; then 
she went further an’ further, an’ growed littler ’n littler tel 
all to onc’st the gates opened an’ in she went.” 

“Don’t it beet all holler?” sobbed the woman, for a 
moment burying her face in her apron. “Oh, husband, ef 


196 


PASSION PAST. 


ye’ll only come es far es the step an’ set thar a little spell, 
mebbe the feller what’s holdin’ open the gate ’ll keep it open 
far awhile longer so’s ye kin see ’er from it; an’ Hiram, don’t 
ye know if she went up thar the Lord’s holdin’ ’er right in 
the holler uv His fist so’s ye needn’t be oneasy ’boat ’er any 
more? Mebbe He’ll let ’er come back to ye sometime agin.” 

“No Rachael,” he answered, a happy contented smile 
lighting up his face for a moment, then fading away leaving 
him inert and helpless. “I knowed she wasn’t cornin’ back 
this mornin’ when I tetched her bed’n, desk’n books, an’ I’m 
willin' now fur meb-be the angel ’ll come afore long an’ open 
the gates fur me —fur — I’m — so — tired — Rachael.” 

“Hiram, I’m goin’ to take ye to the house an put yer Sun- 
day close on an’ hev ye lay down a spell,” she said raising 
him tenderly and almost carrying him up the path bedecked 
with bright flowers that seemed to mock the stricken, misera 
ble woman. 

Her deft hands soon divested him of his heavy outer gar- 
ments — soon drew off the heavy boots, one with its new sole, 
the other worn thin; then, helping him to the bed she 
hurriedly prepared the old time remedy, and bound it on his 
hot forehead, saying in tones so soft and gentle one would 
scarcely recognize them as hers. 

4 ‘It don’t ache so bad now does it dear ? My what a turn 
ye did give me! Be ye a little better now husband?” 

“Yes, I b’lieve I’m a little pearter; still, I never hed sich 
queer feelin’s in my head — jist like the insides was all mashed 
together, or goin to bust to pieces, I can’t hardly tell which. 
Rachael!” a glance like terror leaping into his eyes as he half 
started to a sitting posture: “I can’t be losin my senses kin I?” 

“Oh Hiram don’t say it! I do hope to the Lord ye aint, fur 
I c’d stan’ anything around me better ’n a fool!” she sobbed, 
her own convictions now confirmed anew, “Ye know ye’ve 
bin complainin’ uv them quer feelin’s fur quite a spell.” 

“Yes, but I thought it was my liver, Rachael.” 

“A body’s liver an’ losin’ their senses is mightily alike I’m 
afeard,” replied the comforter, as she again dipped the brown 
paper in the cool vineger. 


PASSION PAST. 


197 


Was it under the mesmeric touch of the rough hand, or the 
cooling compress so fully tested by our grandmother’s of “ye 
olden times” or, was it the mantle of oblivion thrown over 
him by an all wise Father that, for several hours, brought 
forgetfullness for several hours in sleep? 

On tiptoe she moved noiselessly about the little bed room, 
drawing down the blinds to shut out the glaring noonday 
sun, adjusting the pillows more comfortably, while murmur- 
ing to herself. 

“I’ll jist leave the poor feller to sleep off ’is headache; while 
1 redd off the breakfas’ things an’ put out his clean close. ” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


“Enter ye in et the straight gate fur wide es the gate an’ 
broad es the way — that lead-eth — to destruct-ion. It was-jist- 
thet-wide-road-I was-tryin’-to-keep-’er-out’n.” The last word 
issued from her lips in the faintest whisper, for Aunt Rachael 
was comfortably sleeping in her husband’s favorite seat out 
in the yard under the trees, to which she had taken herself, 
bible in hand. 

As a reader Aunt Rachael’s voice was even less musical 
than as a speaker; and possibly it was to find refuge from the 
monotonous machine-like utterances, that for the second time 
in her life, she gave way to sleep in broad day light. In all 
the eighteen years of her married life she had never passed 
through such a long day. Nothing to break the monotony 
except occasionally to slip into her husband’s room, listen for 
a moment to his heavy breathing, cool the bandage on his 
head and slip away again. 

At last a step aroused her, and starting up in confusion at 
being caught napping, she exclaimed: 

“Wy, howd’ye do, neighbor Silver? I was feelin’ ruther 
lonesum an 1 was sit’n hur readin’ the bible, so didn’t hear ye. 
Still, I was thinkin’ to myself thet ye might come over to set 
a spell.” 

“Yes, habit kindy works thet way every Sunday arter- 
noon to come over an’ set a spell with Hiram. Still, I hope 
my sudden cornin’ up on ye didn’t skeer ye, Raehael,” look- 
ing at her quizzically. P>ut she met his look unabashed. 

“Skeer me? Nov, neighbor Silvers, where a body hes 
oneasy consciences they might git skeered at a step, but ef 


PASSION PAST. 


199 


they’re doin’ nothin’ sinf idler than readin’ their bibles; but 
hev a cheer?” she added rather ungraciously, hoping he 
would decline the proffered seat. 

“Whar’s Hiram, any way, Rachael? feedin’?” 

“He’s kindy ailin’ to-day, an’ hes laid down, thinkin’ a lit- 
tle nap ’d help ’im mebbe.” 

“Hiram sick? Wall, I swan! I never knowed Hiram to be 
sick. Ef he needs the doctor I’ll go fur him, Rachael, fur es 
its the fust sick spell he ever hed ’its purty apt to go ruther 
hard with ’im, an’ he’d better stop it at onest.” 

“Hiram would hev to be a heap danges’er than he is to-day 
to take any uv yer doctor’s stuff. Him an’ me don’t b’lieve 
in it,” she said impatiently, and wishing the man would go. 
“It stan’s to reason thet the one that knows the ins an’ outs 
uv him es I do kin do more fur ’im then the one thet don’t. ” 

“It ’ud seem so, Rachael, yes, it ’ud seem so; an’ I’ll go on 
so ’s not to be in the way, for ye to finish yer nap, ha! ha! 
Oh, yes, I heerd the young’uns sey sunthin’ ’bout cornin’ by 
to ast Glennie to go to Lick Branch to Sunday school. ” 

“Ye know she’d ruther stay to hum anytime with ’er books 
then to go to Lick Branch, an’ es ’er uncle’s so po’ly — an’ we 
hev to do all the chorin’ to-night — feedin’, milkin’ an all.” 

“Humph! I’ll tell ’em an’ ’ts likely they’ll not asK ’er 
agin. But let me tell ye Rachael, its ’pintedly my ’pinion 
thet ef young people’s ever to be worth shucks they’ve got to 
rub agin one another an’ not .grow up in sich an offish way. 
Good day neighbor Thornton. 

“Good day! I hate like all out doors to make neighbor 
Silver mad,” she muttered as she watched the old man going 
down the path, “but now she’s run off an’ disgraced us an’ 
Hiram’s losin’ all his senses, I can’t hev them peakin’ their 
long noses around an’ astin’ questions.” 

She entered the house and stood looking down on her hus- 
band’s face when suddenly he opened his eyes from which the 
mist had partially cleared away and said wistfully: 

“I’ve hed a mighty curus dream Rachael, an’ it hes cleared 
things up wonderful that was so puzzlin’ afore. Glennie hed 
bin dream in’ uv her ma, so she must a gone out thar an’ 


200 


PASSION PAST. 


mebbe ’er rna seen ’er setttin’ thar cryin’ all alone an’ she ast 
the angel to slip down an’ git ’er.” 

“But Hiram, it don’t stand to reason she c’d be tuk that 
way,” demurred Rachael. “I never heerd uv but two thet 
was tuk without the trouble uv dyin’. She’ll come back some 
day.” 

“I don’t want ’er come back fur God willin’, it won’t be 
long tel I go, an’ I want ’er to be standin’ at the gate waitin’ 
for me,” he said resignedly. 

“Hiram, ye don’t want to go an’ leave me, yer partner, be- 
hin, would ye?” she pleaded, her eyes filling. “I couldn’t 
stan’ it, nohow, with you an’ baby an’ her all gone. Jist 
because that little spindlin’ thing tuk it in ’er head to run off, 
would you want to go an’ leave the one ye swore to stan’ by 
tel deth?” 

“Thet’s it Rachael, tel death; it ’ud be thedividin’ line arter 
all. It’s strange the feelin’s that comes to us sometimes — to 
want to go an’ to want to stay. Mebbe the Lord’ll pick all the 
tangles an’ knots out some day ef we are willin’ to wait tel 
He’s ready. Though now she’s gone, its harder’n ever to do 
it.” 

As Rachael’s active, practical mind took a great bound into 
the future, hard and lonely as it must be lived with the im- 
becile lying before her, the wave of remorse, passing over 
her for the wreck she had made, was not unmixed with a full 
share of self pity. 

But she could give herself no further time for sentiment. 

“Hiram, ef I fetch ye some dinner wont ye try to worry 
down a bit an’ some coffee?” 

“Mystummick does feel gnawin’ like. I don’t b’lieve I’ve 
et any sence yist’day. Rachael, 1 don’t b’lieve there’s nothin’ 
to hender me gittin’ up ef ye’ll jist lend a han’ to gittin’ in 
my britches. ” 

“Oh, Hiram! Yer britches, wescut an’ all,” she said, joy- 
fully, “D’ye b’lieve ye kin an’ yer head not fall all to pieces? 
Well, ef I ever! An’ I thought ye hedn’t sense to do it?” 

“I feel dreadful muddled, Rachael. My head feels es big 
esthe bee hive through the winder, an’ it’s sich a funny big- 


PASSION PAST. 


201 


ness. I never hed it that way before,” and a wan smile, piti- 
ful to see, came over his heavy features. 

Leaving the two gravely eating their dinner, we must re- 
turn to our little homeless runaway. The mossy carpet un- 
der and about her feet was studded here and there with wild 
flowers that showed prettily in the bright moonlight, and as 
she arose to go on her way she suddenly espied a tiny bunch 
of white violets, dainty emblems of purity and innocence. 

U I may not be tit to wear them, but I’ll take them as a lit- 
tle keepsake, ” she whispered, fastening them in the folds of 
her dress. The next moment she was in the highway, all 
unconscious of the fact that another form was within a few 
feet of her, the face full of perplexity and consternation. 

The girl hurried on and the other followed, keeping in the 
shadows of the trees. 

“1 never shall forgive her,” the girl muttered half aloud, 
as the sting of those cruel words again pierced her heart. 

No thought of her destination beyond Raymond had oc- 
curred to her. She followed the invisible hand beckoning her 
on, spurred by the fancy that she was being pursued by a 
demon in the guise of Rachael Thornton. She was free from 
all physical fear, as girls reared in the country naturally are. 

Suddenly a sound struck on her ear, and she paused with a 
low cry of terror and looked in every direction, unable to tell 
from whence it came, or even its nature. 

Thinking she must have been mistaken, she again turned 
towards Raymond, where she hoped to find a temporary 
refuge, when, for the second time the sound so like a muffled 
footstep arrested her very heart beat; then a voice came waft- 
ing to her on the night air, and with an exclamation of fear, 
she increased her speed, for with the consciousness of pursuit 
came a thought of her uncle, and the certainty that this was 
he, lent swiftness to her feet. 

“It is I, Ayl or Walworth. Do not be afraid,” spoke a 
low, reassuring voice, as a detaining hand was laid upon her 
arm. 

“I thought it was uncle. How glad I am that it is not!” 
she exclaimed, in a hurried, trembling way, clasping her 


202 


PASSION PAST. 


hands over her heart to quiet its beating, for the first thought 
was one of pleasure and relief at the mistake; then an awful, 
intangible shame quivered through her soul, causing her to 
drop her eyes, those wistful, pathetic eyes, now red and in- 
flamed with weeping. 

“How came you here, Mr. Walworth? Why have you 
followed me?” she asked, hoarsely. 

“Have I annoyed you, Miss Thornton? I had no thought 
of doing so; but can you wonder that 1 followed when I saw 
you alone, near the hour of midnight? What has happened 
to make you leave your home?” 

“It is but the beginning! Oh, why did you stop me? 
Even the leper may be permitted to go on his way unmo- 
lested,” she sobbed in despair. 

“Miss Thornton, again I say I do not wish to annoy you; 
but surely you need help and protection — ” 

“I wish neither; for I know the way, so please pass on and 
leave me to myself,” struggling to free herself from his gen- 
tle, detaining grasp. 

“You ask that which is impossible Miss Thornton” he an- 
swered firmly. “I should be unworthy the name of man to 
leave you on this lonely road. Be reasonable and don’t feel 
offended, for I shall either accompany you to your distina- 
tion or take you back to your home; now which shall it be?” 
drawing the no longer resisting hand, through his arm. 

“Indeed, I am not offended Mr. Walworth,” with a piteous 
appeal in her brown eyes that filled him with infinite 
sympathy, “but you would hate me were I to tell you all that 
has happened to-day, and why I have run away from home to- 
night.” 

“I could not hate you! surely you know that! There! dry 
your eyes and try to tell this dreadful thing that has happened 
to you, though I haven’t a doubt that it is some fancy of 
your own imagination which our combined reason can dispel 
in five minutes. Come tell me, little one.” 

She looked up at the strong form outlined against the 
moonlit sky; into the honest grey eyes and her lonely girlish 
heart went out to him in sudden trust and gratitude. “If it 


PASSION PAST. 


203 


were anything Mr. Walworth, but this disgrace — but I can 
not, I can not!” she moaned, as a full sense of the delicacy of 
her position came over her. 

“Tell me the worst,” he urged, gently, as he would have 
done a little child. “There may be some grievous mistake 
but there is no disgrace. I feel that I am in some way to 
blame for this, Miss Thornton.” 

“That is it, Mr. Walworth. You call me by a name to which 
I have no right,” a crimson tide sweeping over her face. 

“Ah!” was the astonished exclamation, a perception of her 
meaning pentrating his mind bringing with it ineffable pity. 
Suddenly the shrill whistle of a locomotive rang out in the 
distance recalling the girl to the fact that longer delay was 
out of the queston. 

“Mr. Walworth I must catch that train and have but five 
minutes to do so,” she said disengaging herself and starting in 
the direction of Parkhurst. 

“In heaven’s name, to whom am I to take you ?” he asked 
hurrying after her. 

“Only help me get the train. One mile further on it 
stops to take on fuel, there we must decide on some place of 
temporary concealment until I can form some plan for the 
future,” and with that he had to be content for not another 
word was exchanged until they had seated themselves in a 
half filled coach. 

“Now, Glennie, what next? Are you fully determined on 
giving up your home? 1 can not urge you either way; but 
to-day you said your uncle loves you. Does he know of this?” 

“No, no! but I can not go back. Oh, Mr. Walworth, if 
you only knew what that woman said to me, you would know 
it to be impossible. She said my mother was not a good 
woman, which I know is not true. I believe she is living 
and I am going to find her.” 

“I should as soon doubt my own dear mother as yours,” 
he exclaimed indignantly, “and as for your aunt, I think I 
can fully comprehend the possibilities of that organ for 
which the bible suggests a bridle.” 

“From my soul I thank you for your kindness more for 


204 


PASSION PAST. 


my poor lost mother’s sake than my own. I have one friend 
in Raymond. I will go to her tonight and she may advise 
me what is best to do. . ” There was a weary pathos in her 
voice. ‘ T know God will help me, also. ” 

“When they called unto the Lord in their trouble He de- 
livered them out of their distress,” he answered, reverently. 

“How incomprehensible it seems,” she said, after a mo- 
ment’s silence, “that you, a stranger, should do me this serv- 
ice. This evening I wondered if you would hate me and to 
think, I would rather take a favor from you than any other!” 

“You don’t know how glad I am that you trust me; but as 
a helpless woman, you are entitled to the protection of any 
man, and especially to mine, when I feel sure I have precipi- 
tated this trouble,” he replied. 

“It would have come sooner or later; she told me that, so 
don’t take unnecessary blame to yourself.” 

“Glennie, I already have two sisters, but 1 am very selfish 
— men always are, you know, and I wish for three. Shall it 
be so? May I from now claim you as my sister, Glennie?” 

She put her hand in his, saying: “You are so kind to me; 
but my name is not Glennie. I discovered that much tonight 
— from this,” giving him the tiny baby ring. 

“Coralie! Coralie!” For a moment looking puzzled, as if 
the name had touched a long forgotton chord in his memory. 
Then seeing the eager look in her eyes, he continued: “The 
name is prettier than the other, I believe. Why child, the 
name itself is a clue.” 

“I know; but so hard to follow up, and I feel so helpless, 
Mr. Walworth. But here is another, though, almost as faint,” 
taking the yellow, folded paper from her purse. 

“1 am sure they will prove valuable in your search,” he 
said returning the two after having read the note, and trying 
not to notice the color coming into her face. 

“Coralie, 1 have done something that you are pleased to 
call a service,” she looked inquiringly at him. 

“And I am thinking of asking immediate payment,” he 
went on, a merry twinkle in his eyes. 


PASSION PAST. 


205 


“Even to the half of my kingdom,” catching the infectious 
humor. 

“Your magnanimity may embolden me to ask even more 
some day; but my desire tonight is easier of attainment — 
merely one of those little flowers to keep as a memento,” 
pointing to the violets pinned in the folds of her dress. 

“Is this all? Certainly — all of them,” detaching them at 
once and handing them to him with the innocent candor of a 
child that somewhat disconcerted him. 

“All? no, I prefer that you give half of them to me and 
keep the others yourself,” carefully dividing them. “This 
will be priceless to me; shall they not be a pledge of our new 
relations, Coralie?” 

“It is pleasant to have a brother, Mr. Walworth.” 

“Mr. Walworth! brother, Mr. Walworth!” he cried amused, 
“Is not the relationship rather strained after all?” he tried to 
look into her eyes. 

“Well then let us compromise. These exchanged pledges 
shall hold for two years; we can then determine on a renewal 
or enter into a new compact which ever we may then desire. 
Agreed?” 

“That is quite fair I think,” she replied, turning away to 
avoid the searching mischievous eyes, a thrill as light as the 
fluttering of a gossamer’s wing stirring her soul. 

“Now Coralie, in the two years you will be eighteen; then 
we will exchange these little souvenirs and either cancel or 
renew the tie formed to-night?” 

“I shall not forget.” 

“Now Coralie, I shall at once assume the right of a brother 
by calling your attention to one little fact — that of calling up 
your friend at so late an hour. She will naturally show a 
curiosity that may pain you.” 

“How pain me? I fail to understand,” turning her innocent 
brown eyes upon him. “I know she will be kinder than — 
that woman — . ” 

“And I know more of the world than you Coralie: and 
although your friend may be a thoroughly good woman, she 
is more than human if she receives us without asking ques- 


206 


PASSION PAST. 


tions. I fear that you don’t understand,” he said looking” in 
those true eyes. 

“Too pure and, too honest in aught to disguise the sweet 
soul shinning through them.” 

How impossible it was for the young girl to grasp his 
meaning, and her very innocence and helplessness appealed 
so strongly to his susceptible nature, that he felt an almost 
irresistible temptation to cast prudence to the winds, and take 
the orphan child into his life, and by giving this nameless 
waif his own honorable one, lift her out of her degradation 
into a new and higher life which he felt certain she would 
adorn. 

But her very helplessness told him he must take no such 
unworthy advantage of her inexperienced youth, by thus 
disturbing the peaceful serenity of her sleeping soul. 

“I know Mrs. Kinne will be kinder than that woman and I 
can work. I have never enjoyed the luxury of eating the 
bread of independence.” 

“Believe me, Coralie, it is a delusion and a snare,” he 
laughingly answered, “I fatten on such nourishment. The 
mater keeps a well-filled larder to which I am not more wel- 
come than you to all your uncle possesses. You are morbid. ” 

“The bitterest thought to me to-night is that I have left 
him inconsolable, ” she answered sadly. 

“You must write to him Coralie.” 

“But she threatened me if I should try to explain.” 

“She must be a terrible creature!” he said indignantly. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“Here we are at Raymond, Coralie,” Aylor said at last. 

“And Mrs. Kinne lives but two squares away, and I am 
glad, for I am very tired.” 

Descending the steps, he drew the girl’s arm through his 
own, thus supporting her tottering footsteps. 

Charlie Kinne had died several years before, and we now 
bring our old friend Lizzie before our readers a childless 
widow. When contemplating some means of self-support 
after her husband’s death, she decided on opening a book 
store, using as a neucleus for the venture a small insurance 
on his life; thus she had been able to provide amply for her- 
self, besides giving generously to the needy and distressed. 

It was through her passion for reading that Glennie had 
come under the notice of this estimable lady, and, notwith- 
standing frequent scoldings, this was one friendship with 
which Rachael did not seriously interfere; consequently the 
young girl had occasionally been permitted for hours, to revel 
in this, to her, inexhaustible store-house of knowledge, when 
going with her uncle to Raymond, to be picked up on his 
return home. 

Owing to its many short streets and alleys the city pre- 
sented a rather zigzag appearance to Aylor, and his eyes 
hurriedly took in the small shops and groceries, such as 
usually abound in the suburbs of a large city, for he hoped to 
be able to judge by her environments something of the char- 
acter of the lady he was about to meet, and whom he feared 
it would be very difficult to convince of the purity of his 


208 


PASSION PAST. 


designs in relation to the helpless one with whom he had been 
thrown by the peculiar circumstances of the hour. 

To prevent such a misconception he trusted more to 
Glennie’s perfect unconsciousness of the uncharitable con- 
struction which the popular prejudices of the day so readily 
throw upon the slightest deviation from their prescribed 
rules, than to his own ingenuity to avert suspicion as to his 
motives. 

It was a two-storied brick building, the front occupied by 
the book store, the rear and upper rooms used as dining 
room, kitchen, three bed rooms and parlor. A painted fence 
enclosed the lot on either side and the grassy yard and pretty 
evergreens betokened thriftiness and care. 

Coralie guided Aylor through a side entrance and up a neat 
walk which was overlooked by Mrs. Kinne’s bed room win- 
dow. Evidently the inmates of the surrounding houses were 
asleep, for everything was quiet and as Aylor pressed the 
button of the electric bell he inwardly blessed the inventor’s 
skill for the noiseless messenger. 

In a moment the window was cautiously raised, and a voice 
so womanly and kind as to inspire him with hope, asked: 

“Who is it? What is wanted at so late an hour? Is anyone 
ill?” 

“Oh, Mrs. Kinne, please let me in and I will tell you,” 
came back in tones eager and pleading. 

“Why Glennie Thornton! But wait a moment until I come 
down.” 

“Coralie, before she comes tell me when I may see you ? To- 
morrow?”’ he asked quickly. 

“Yes, I must thank you again and again for all you have 
done for me tonight. Come to-morrow at ten.” 

“At ten then look for me little sister,” he whispered, as the 
door opened, revealing the strong earnest face of our old 
friend, older to be sure, but the face of a Christian chastened 
by sorrow, the strong lines melting away into tenderness at 
sight of the drooping, forlorn little figure before her; then as 
her eyes fell upon the young man there came a look of be- 
wilderment and consternation. 


PASSION PAST. 


209 


4 "Mrs. Kinne, I have run away from Uncle Hiram and 
Aunt Rachael, and this kind friend overtook me on my way 
to the train and brought me here — and oh, I am afraid 1 am 
going to be ill — ” and the weak, pitiful voice broke down in 
a sob. 

She put her arm protectingly about the girl, drew her in 
and closed the door, then turned to Aylor. 

U I think the young lady requires immediate attention 
madam,” flushing slightly under her searching gaze. 

“She shall have it at once, poor little one!” her eyes settling 
again on the white face that pressed more heavily against her 
shoulder. u She has fainted,” she whispered. “Will you 
kindly assist me in taking her upstairs?” 

He instantly obeyed by lifting the unconscious girl in his 
arms and following the lady to the room indicated, placed 
her on the bed. 

“She will now be better alone with me. You can find a 
chair in there,” motioning toward the adjoing room and with 
a bow for the second time he obeyed. 

“Now, my dear, I cannot permit this crying,” she remon- 
strated a few minutes after as with an hysterical burst of 
tears the girl turned her face away from the kind motherly 
woman, “I have long thought it is my mission to wipe away 
the tears of sorrow, and I am going to do so now,” with a 
smile carrying the threat into effect. 

“Oh, Mrs. Kinne, you don’t know how different every- 
thing is with me now. I am an outcast, without home or 
friends. You might not have taken me in had you known all 
the shame and disgrace.” 

“I don’t believe there is, either, and to show you that I 
don’t I shall not listen to a word of explanation to-night. 
Why, child, it is almost one o’clock — a nice time for two 
respectable females to be out of their beds!” 

“I don’t feel as if I can ever sleep again with this heavy 
burden weiging me down,” she moaned. 

“Then I shall take it upon my shoulders, Glennie, for they 
are becoming distressingly broad and strong,” she answered 


210 


PASSION PAST. 


smiling into the sad little face, “and you know what our 
Saviour commanded us to do, dear.” 

“But this — you cannot imagine how heavy it is, how like a 
great pall it hangs over me, how overpowering this burden 

is, I could have borne any other.” 

“Who of us does not think this of every one laid upon us, 
Glennie? Possibly to-morrow we may be able to bury this 
out of sight; try and go to sleep with this hope in your heart,” 
she replied, passing her soft hand over the brown curls. 

“Ah, but this must be an ever-present spectre! I can not 
bury it at will,” she persisted sadly. 

“Time is a tender physician after all, Glennie — an instru- 
ment in the hands of a merciful Father and one by whom all 
our burdens are to be lifted when they have done their per- 
fect work.” 

And so the bright, helpful, Christian woman talked and 
soothed until the weary lids fell over the brown eyes, and 
Glennie slept peacefully at last. 

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long, Mr. Wal- 
worth,” to the young man sitting by the window in the next 
room, where, unseen, he could see all, “but the poor child 
was in such an excited condition it was necessary that she 
should be cared for. ” 

She stood beside him, her grave, questioning eyes looking 
into his, under which he flushed slightly. 

“You have no doubt been shocked at this intrusion, Mrs. 
Kinne, and I regret the apparently false position in which I 
am placed.” 

“I think I am too charitable to cherish any sudden sus- 
picion that may have sprung up — which may easily be 
explained away, after all. Of Glennie’s inborn purity and 
truth I have no doubt; and I do not wish to be severe, but 
you know all this seems mysterious to me.” 

“I can, in a few moments dispel your doubts as to my own 
position Mrs. Kinne,” in a tone that carried conviction with 

it. 

And he hurriedly told her all he knew and at the conclusion 
he said rising: 


PASSION PAST. 


211 


“I am grateful for your attention dear Madam, and as the 
hour is late I shall bid you good night.” 

“But is it a final good bye Mr. Walworth?” 

“Not if I may call to-morrow Mrs. Kinne,” flushing with 
pleasure, “Have I your permission, Madam?” 

“Glennie must be considered first of all, yet for the kind- 
ness you have shown, I can do no less than say yes — and then 
we may wish to consult with you as to some course for the 
future; so come, her friends must decide for she is incapable.” 

“What a perverted nature Rachael’s has become!” said the 
lady to herself as she stood looking, for a moment on the 
sleeping child after he had gone. “Yet, when she and Hiram 
were married here in our little parlor, I thought they might 
be happy in their way. 

Oh Charlie! what a Christmas day that was, with you, 
Douglas, Clare and baby Arthur! For a brief period, only, 
happiness was mine with husband, children — now, all are 
gone. ” 

For a few minutes did she give way to this mourning for 
her lost idols; but soon the look of quiet resignation settled 
over her handsome features. “The Lord is my shepherd, 
therefore can I lack nothing,” and with these comforting 
words upon her lips she lay down and drew the pretty, curly 
head of the sleeping girl to her bosom. 

The next morning Aylor found Coral ie seated by a window 
of the prettily furnished parlor, rather indifferently watching 
the hurrying throng obeying the summons of various church 
bells. As she gave him her hand in greeting, the tender lips 
quivered and the brown eyes grew moist; otherwise the out- 
ward signs of yesterday’s severe struggle had vanished leav- 
ing in their stead the thoughtful expression of a mature 
woman. 

Perceiving that she could hardly speak to him, he thought 
it very likely that the incidents of the previous night now 
presented themselves to her sensitive mind under a new aspect 
in the light of day and resolving to ignore the past as long as 
possible, he said with assumed cheerfulness: 

“A laggard like myself, I see — As I came along and heard 


212 


PASSION PAST. 


so many church bells I feared that I might not see you after 
all.” 

u No doubt yon will be properly shocked to hear that I am 
not an over zealous church goer, Mr. Walworth. I went 
with uncle occasionally to Lick Branch but I’m afraid Lick 
Branch failed to impress me with an overpowering sense of 
my sins; and then,” she went on as Aylor laughed at the 
shameless avowel, “the hope that you would not forget your 
promise outweighed everything else. Mr. Walworth, you 
really have no idea how comfortable and lazy this easy chair 
makes one. Try it!*’ hospitably drawing a great sleepy-look- 
ing rocker near the window. 

“It’s a temptation I own, Coralie; but may 1 sing you 
something first?” seating himself before the open piano. 

“Oh, if you only will, Mr. Walworth!” clasping her 
hands in ecstacy, “I love music more than anything else; and 
to think it was only yesterday uncle told me he intended to 
buy me a piano and have me take lessons!” 

“I have at last found the key note to her heart,” the young 
man thought running his fingers lightly over the keys. 

“I forget to tell you, Mr. Walworth, that Mrs. Kinne 
could not well neglect her Sabbath school class this morning 
so I begged her not to allow my being here to interfere. She 
said to tell you she hoped you would stay until she returns.” 

“Coralie!” he cried rapturously, watching the bright, 
piquant face, c ‘I can not say how grateful I feel to that esti- 
mable lady. If she would only stay to church ” 

“But why?” asked the girl innocently, while a puzzled 
look came into her own eyes that somewhat disconcerted the 
bold speaker, although he asked himself if her apparent un- 
consciousness was unfeigned or real. But a searching look 
into the candid brown eyes assured him that she was the same 
innocent maiden of yesterday, and the temptation, to put 
forth an effort to ignite the spark of romance which must be 
in her nature, swept over him. 

“But why?” she repeated, coming near him. “I think 
your jest is a wicked one, for I don’t know why my friend’s 


PASSION PAST. 


213 


presence should be under sirable. Why are you looking at 
me so?” 

“Pardon the rudeness. For the moment 1 was lost in 
studying your face, hoping thus to be able to divine your 
musical bent. Shall it be sacred or sentimental ?” 

“Why Mr. Walworth! Sacred, of course; its Sunday; still, 
I believe you are dodging my question, she said, severely.” 

“And you are dodging mine, so we will cry quits!” he 
retorted gayly, running through an introduction with what 
even her untutored ear recognized as a master hand. “As 
they say in ‘meeting,’ Coralie, we will proceed now to sing 
the first and last stanzas,” he said. And the next instant 
the clear tenor voice seemed to fill the room: 

“Nothing but leaves ! The spirit grieves 
O’er years of wasted life; 

O’er sins indulged while conscience slept, 

0’er*vows and promises unkept; 

And reap from years of Strife- 
Nothing but leaves ! Nothing but leaves ! 

“Ah, who shall thus the Master meet? 

Ah, who shall at the Saviour’s feet, 

Before the awful judgment seat, 

Lay down the golden sheaves, 

Nothing but leaves? Nothing but leaves?” 

Coralie was the first to speak : 

“When near the close of a misspent life what regrets one 
must feel to know he has garnered up nothing but a handful 
of withered leaves!” 

“Now, I’ll show you, Coralie, how the dear mother has 
tried to teach me how to avoid such regrets in later years,” 
and again the rich voice rang out: 

“Let us gather up the sunbeams, 

Lying all about our path; 

Let us keep the wheat and roses, 

Casting out the thorns and chaff; 

Let us find our sweetest comfort 
In the blessings of to-day, 

With a patient hand removing 
All the briers from the way. 

He continued on to the close of the beautiful lines, when a 
low sob issuing from the depths of the rocker caused him to 
spring up in dismay. He was by her side in an instant. 


214 


PASSION PAST. 


“What is it, little sister? What have I clone?” he cried, 
distressedly, longing to take the sorrowful little figure in his 
strong arms and comfort her. 

“What a baby you must think me,” she said, smiling 
through her tears; “but the song and your voice went right 
to my heart as nothing else ever did; then that about the 
baby fingers made me remember what a baby I was when I 
lost my mother — ” 

“And,” he interposed, “I was just egotistical enough to 
think I was helping you to forget every thing. Don’t blame 
me for I am just a man, blunders and all which ought to be 
sufficient excuse, oughtn’t it? But don’t quite lose faith in 
me.” 

“Have you a mother Mr. Walworth?” she asked wistfulty. 

“Yes, and two sisters — one married and the other — Bessie a 
little fourteen year old darling at school.” 

“What a happy home } r ours should be!” she answered with 
a feeling akin to envy. 

“It is; with such a mother and sister I should be an ungrate- 
ful dog indeed to complain, though in longing for the un- 
attainable we are apt to give little value to the good things of 
life we already have. ” As he said this he saw from the open 
window troops of little children hurrying in every direction 
from their Sunday schools. 

“Mrs. Kinne will soon be here,” observed his companion, 
her eyes follow his, “suppose you take the easy chair now and 
we will watch for her. ” 

“You have fallen into kind hands. Have you known Mrs. 
Kinne long?” he asked, complying at once. Now he knew 
the past could no longer be put aside. 

“For three or four years. My acquaintance began by 
coming here for some books and from the first she seemed to 
like me and want me to come in every time uncle brought 
me in— yes, there she comes now, just turning the corner. 
There she’s stopped to talk to some one.” 

“She don’t seem to have any one living with her. Is she 
all alone, without relatives or friends? Pardon me, but I 


PASSION PAST. 


215 


should like to know something about your temporary home, 
Coralie — hence my interest.” 

In a few words she told him what she knew ending with 
the information that — “she is a cousin to the great actress, 
Madamoiselle D’Harleville.” 

“ Well , now I am astonished. Having seen that most beau- 
tiful woman before the footlights several times it seems in- 
credible that the famous actress should be related to this 
quiet unobtrusive lady. One could not imagine a more 
striking contrast.” 

“Mrs. Kinne has her picture here. Such eyes and hair! 
see?” taking from a table one from a pile of photographs. 

“Yes, it is she. There’s not a shade of resemblance. 
This looks like a foreigner — besides the name Coralie, which 
is French.” 

Her father was French. Mrs. Kinne says that she is like 
him. Why, she’s the handsomest woman I ever saw,” she 
cried enthusiastically. 

“Who is the handsomest woman, Glennie?” asked Mrs. 
Kinne at that moment and both pairs of eyes turned to her. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


“So my cousin Clare is the magnificent person in question 
I see,” she said, shaking hands with Aylor, her keen eyes de- 
tecting the admiration in his for the girl near him. “I 
know you are glad to see this little girl looking so much bet- 
ter, Mr. Walworth,” she added. 

“I am indeed, with thanks to the fairy godmother whose 
magic wand has wrought such a transformation.” 

“It was not such a difficult task for the fairy godmother to 
exorcise the imaginary spirits conjured up by a brain so sen- 
sible and healthy as Glennie’s.” 

“She tries to make me believe they are imaginary, Mr. 
Walworth; but alas, instead of this being as visionary as she 
would have me think, it has proved a very tangible fact and 
the time has come when I can no longer ignore it,” Glennie 
replied, her young voice quivering with pain as a sense of her 
shame and desolation again came over her, and she turned 
away that they might not see the tears that would come up. 

“Then Glennie,” said her friend, after regarding her a 
moment in compassionate silence, “if we are powerless to ex- 
orcise this formidable adversary, the next best thing is to 
meet it bravely; and you have two friends in Mr. Walworth 
and myself who do not intend to leave you to meet it alone. 
The first question that naturally arises is, what course will you 
take when your uncle comes for you, for I shall expect him 
to do this?” 

“I shall not go back to her, never! never! 1 would starve 
first. ” she cried. 

“Then, Glennie, surely we three can think of something; 


PASSION PAST. 


217 


but if we fail collectively, then I have a proposal to make 
on my own account.” 

“I feel sure it is but a design to further make me a recip- 
ient of your kindness,” shaking her head determinedly. 

“No, for I don’t think longer dependence good for you,” 
was her reply. “Now for my proposal, which shall only be 
regarded as an experiment for a short time; and I think Mr. 
Walworth will agree with me — that you remain here and 
assist me in my work at a fair remuneration. The work will 
be pleasant and light for two, while it is too hard for me. I 
don’t know of any one who would suit me as you would. 
You can think it over a day or two.” 

“Yes, Coralie, you can at least do that and in time some 
path may be opened up for you,” said Ay lor. 

“I knew it would prove to be some deep laid plan to 
ensnare me, Mrs. Kinne, and you knew this work would be 
more congenial than any other — but you know why 1 left 
home.” 

“Something may come to light — some clue to work upon, 
Glennie.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Kinne, I haven’t told you, but Mr. Walworth 
knows,” she cried, her face suddenly lighting up at the rec- 
ollection, “I have two already, this little ring which my 
abductor surely overlooked, and this note that was pinned to 
my clothing,” and taking both from her pocket she put them 
into the hand of the astonished listener. 

4 ‘Glennie, is it possible ?” For the instant sharing the girl’s 
enthusiasm; then pausing abruptly. She looked at both, first 
at the ring, reading the name engraved inside and then she 
unfolded the yellow paper. At the first glance a startled, 
bewildered look came into her eyes as if the handwriting had 
touched a familiar chord in her memory, then her face con- 
tracted in an eager scrutiny. 

“It is surely hers!” she muttered, in the instant forget- 
ting the presence of the young couple, ‘ ‘that is as she wrote 
years ago. ” 

“Can it be possible that you know the writing?” Aylor 
asked quickly. 


218 


PASSION PAST, 


“Oh, Mrs. Kinne, surely you didn’t know this wicked 
dreadful woman! this woman who stole me from my home?” 

“Wicked? dreadful?” she repeated in a questioning way. 
“This person was neither, so you can see I was mistaken,” 
recovering herself by an effort and trying to speak calmly as 
she saw the suspicion and astonishment in both their faces. 
“I spoke too hastily, Glennie, which I had no right to do 
until I was sure. Something in it struck me as familiar, but 
there may be a hundred others who write like this. Yes I 
am sure I was mistaken,” meeting defiantly the doubt 
expresed in Aylor’s eyes, and convinced that he knew her 
words to be but an evasion of the truth. 

“Oh, Mrs. Kinne, how disappointed lam!” the sudden joy 
dying out of the girl’s face. 

“I must have a little time, Glennie, to think this over. It 
is a rather peculiar hand and I never saw but one like it, 
though, as I said, there may be a hundred. I cannot see how 
it is possible for this person to be connected with your early 
life. 

“Does the person live in Raymond? or is it probable that 
she knew the Thorntons? If there is any clue whatever to 
work upon, you would not withhold it?” 

“She does not live in the State, Mr. Walworth,” she coldty 
replied. “Glennie, may I keep this for you a day or two.” 

“Certainly, as long as you wish,” assented the girl. 

“Then if you will both excuse me I will return in a few 
minutes,” she said rising. 

“I’m sure she is deceiving us, Coralie, and she resents my 
suspicions,” Ay lor said in a low voice as soon as they were 
alone. 

“She is the soul of truth — .” 

“I do not accuse her of untruthfulness, except in the spirit 
—merely by evading the facts; for she knows who wrote that 
note as well as the writer herself. I confess it seems very 
strange — inexplicable. 

“She will tell us then when she is certain there is anything 
we should know. She is my best friend and I trust her fully 


PASSION PAST. 219 

— though for that matter you have been just as kind and 1 
can never thank you for your interest in me.” 

‘‘You can by allowing me to forget what you persist in 
calling a service until I may be able to render a real one,” he 
said, rather reproachfully. 

A silence fell between them for a moment, the girl looking 
perhaps for the hundredth time at the words, “Coralie from 
mamma.” “Mr. Walworth,” she said, repeating them again, 
“this alone is enough to show me I had a mother who loved 
me. Don’t you think so?” 

“The pretty name has a familiar sound, though 1 can not 
remember having ever known such a person in real life. I 
suppose it was in a former state of existence.” 

“Do try to think,” she urged, his levity jarring on her 
senses. “I am sure I have heard it too. You know I was 
supposed to be near three years of age when I was brought 
to Raymond.” 

“I can remember when I was three years old; but the pretty 
name seems to come up like a dream. You say that was 
thirteen years ago; now there being one chance in a thousand 
that you are the Coralie of my dreams, it must have been 
prior to that — the dreams I mean.” 

“If you only could remember,” she pleaded. “This seems 
to be a morning for surprises and who knows but this might 
prove the greatest of all? Forgive me for persisting — you 
said yesterday you had been at college — it seem such a little 
thing to go back thirteen years. ” 

The other arose suddenly to his feet, turning the full bat- 
tery of his keen eyes upon her, eagerly taking in the whole 
form from the curly head to the tiny feet, while the poor girl 
grew deadly white. 

“Oh what is this marvelous discovery you have made Mr. 
Walworth?” she cried excitedly. “This agitation shows me 
that your dream may have been real. Do please tell me.” 

“Not before your friend: she is coming! wait — wait— oh, 
child, forgive my blunder — I had no right,” he said, as the 
grave face of Mrs. Kinne now wearing a very anxious look 
appeared at the door. 


220 


PASSION PAST. 


“Yes, dear, I acted unwisely in speaking without proof for 
I can make nothing out of it,” she said, in answer to the 
question in the brown eyes that turned eagerly toward her. 
'‘Why, Glennie! I do believe I left your paper lying on my 
dressing bureau ! As you are younger than I may 1 ask vou 
to get it for me?” 

“Yes, I’ll get it—.” 

“And dear, bathe your eyes before you come back, you 
have been crying.” 

“It was but a subterfuge, Mr. Walworth,” she said, when 
the girl had gone to do her bidding. “I had to resort to a 
ruse to get her out of the room, for I must arrange some way 
to talk over this matter alone with you, and we must not take 
others into our confidence.” 

While saying this she was looking intently at her cousin’s 
photograph which she had taken from the table and he saw 
the hand tremble which held it. 

“I am at your service at any hour you name; and as you 
say, I think the matter should remain a secret for awhile. ” 

“Then say to-night at ten. I don’t suppose she will be 
asleep earlier than ten and she must not suspect.” 

“Here is the note: it had fallen under the dresser Mrs. 
Kinne. Are you going Mr. Walworth?” for the young man 
was standing with his hat in his hand. 

“Yes, I think my presumption has reached its limits,” he 
answered with a smile, though inwardly pleased to see a 
shade of regret come into her face. “Your friend says I 
may come again.” 

“I do think Mr. Walworth is so nice,” she observed naively 
when they were alone. 

“Yes Glennie much nicer than our lunch will be if we keep 
Mary waiting much longer, so come,” her hostess returned 
laughing. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


u Mr. Walworth, will you compare this writing and tell me 
what you think of it?” 

“I think they were written by the same person without 
the least attempt at a disguise,” he answered unhesitatingly. 

Mrs. Kinne sank back into the chair, while her naturally 
grave placid face was drawn and haggard. 

“But why Mr. Walworth?” she asked in tones vibrating 
with pain, incredulity and horror, “Those letters were writ- 
ten by a lovely woman who to-day possesses a name and fame 
throughout this continent and part of the eastern. Why 
should she be interested in this unworthy way in the child 
asleep in that room?” 

“Who is this lady?” he persisted gravely. 

“One who could not have lived this dual life, Mr. Wal- 
worth, I know every incident or event in her life since she 
was seventeen. ” 

“We can do nothing with this half wav confidence between 
us. You are in the dark — so am 1, and by mutually trusting 
in one another we may be able to throw some light upon the 
mystery,” he said earnestly, surprised and puzzled at her 
evident reluctance to speak. 

“Can not you see the truth in what I say?” he urged. 

“Yes, Mr. Walworth, but I love this person as 1 should a 
child of my OAvn, and if, in revealing her name I should bring 
harm to her — ” 

“But I hope you understand, Madam, this conversation is 
under a seal of secrecy,” he hastened to assure her, “and 


222 


PASSION PAST. 


unless you are willing that the disclosure be made known to 
others, I shall regard it as— between us.” 

“Possibly you are trusting too much to my honor. My 
sense of right and wrong may disappoint you in case of an 
unpleasant issue. ” 

“I am willing to leave the matter to this sense of right and 
wrong you would deprecate,” he answered, gallantly. 

“Now, you leave me no other course,” she said, in a pained 
voice. “The lady I suspect is my cousin, Madmoiselle D’ 
Harleville, Mr. Walworth.” 

“Madmoiselle D’ Harleville, the actress?” he cried, 
astounded. “Oh madam! Coralie told me today — and this 
lady’s real name?” 

“Clare Fontaine, though none but her relatives know the 
names to be synonomous.” 

“It is strange to me. I am certain I never heard of it. 
Your cousin has gone abroad, hasn’t she?” 

“Yes, she is now under a contract in France. But tell me 
Mr. Walworth how could she have been in any way connected 
with the mystery surrounding Glennie Thornton’s par- 
entage?” 

“Alas, I can not Mrs. Kinne. It will take time to do that; 
but you know no such a wrong could have been perpetrated 
without a cause, and to find that we shall have to go back to 
that period in your cousin’s life. You may be able to 
remember where your cousin was thirteen years ago when 
this child was abducted.” 

“That was shortly after her mother’s death. She went to 
New York immediately,” she replied, hesitatingly. 

“I think such acts of revenge can always be traced back to 
some love affair. Up to that period you knew nothing of a 
romantic nature?” 

“Indeed I did not, for she seemed to be singularly free 
from anything of the kind. Her mother told me of her hav- 
ing refused two or three offers of marriage.” 

“There may have been some reason for the refusals, Mrs. 
Kinne,” pursued the young detective, and the other felt the 
meshes drawing more closely about her. “Sixteen or sev- 


PASSION PAST. 


223 


enteen is the most romantic age in a girl’s life,” the young 
sage continued wisely. “Did you never suspect any mystery 
in her life?” 

“Yes, Mr. Walworth, I had reason to think there was 
something but she guarded her secret well if she ever had a 
love affair. There is a cousin of my husband’s, Douglas 
Maitland — a minister in Pennsylvania, who has but one weak- 
ness and that is, his faithful, hopeless love for my cousin.” 

“Then there is some reason why this love should be hope- 
less like the others. Pardon my persistence, but you and I 
must feel a common interest in that poor motherless child.” 

“I will tell you all I know that goes to prove there was any 
mystery,” and in a few minutes she had related everything 
from her sudden visit to Hollidale to the mysterious meeting 
with the young conductor. Beyond that, she knew but little. 

“She had brain fever, you say? What could have caused 
it? I think it can be traced to different causes. 1 once knew 
a boy of fifteen who became very nervous -over the severe 
thunder storms through the summer and a serious attack of 
brain fever was the result.” He watched her earnestly as he 
spoke. 

“Nothing of the kind had happened I am sure — nothing 
out of the usual order unless it was the gentleman — Mr. 
Woodland who had been ill — .” 

“Mr. Woodland — Horace Woodland? This is just what I 
have suspected all day Mrs. Kinne,” he cried springing to his 
feel and man like walking with rapid strides up and down 
the room much to the lady’s consternation. 

“Mr. Walworth, remember I am in the dark as to all this. 
I know nothing,” she implored. 

“Mrs. Kinne I am certain that I have discovered Coralie’s 
parentage, although I know little of the network of this 
mystery; to unravel that, will I fear require our united ef- 
forts — forgive me for exulting over a discovery which must 
give you pain — ” 

“Alas, I fear that I ha^e betrayed one who is very dear to 
me into the hands of her enemies, but justice must be done no 
matter who suffers, ” 


224 


PASSION PAST. 


“I felt certain you would think thus Madam, and I promise 
you on my honor as a gentleman your cousin shall be spared 
all publicity. This shall be one stipulation I shall make with 
Horace Woodland before I lay the facts before him.” 

“Horace Woodland? what has he to do with this?” 

“Horace Woodland is Coralie’s father Mrs. Kinne.” 

“Do tell me all about it will you without further circum- 
locution. ” 

“I have known him ever since I was a boy in m v “teens,” 
my father having moved to Woodlawn, his home, when I was 
at that age and about the time of his marriage with Ethel 
Hereford, a beautiful girl of New York. In time the twins 
came — a boy and girl. 

When they were three years old, Coralie, the girl, was 
stolen and from that day they have not heard a word. 

The father has told me that unfortunately he had incurred 
the enmity of two persons — one a beautiful young girl in 
West Virginia, who had helped to nurse him after a slight 
accident — the other a cousin of his wife’s — by the way, it now 
occurs to me this same cousin was at one time a railroad con- 
ductor. ” 

Mrs. Kinne exclaimed! “My cousin must have fallen in 
love with Woodland, who, doubtless was thoughtless or un- 
principled. ” 

“She did fall in love, and while he may have been thought- 
less, when thrown with a girl as beautiful as the original of 
this picture must have been, I can not think him unprincipled. 
In her fury she vowed when parting from him that day, that 
she would have revenge. ” 

“But how Mr. Walworth, could a girl of seventeen, have 
carried it out? Where were the detectives that they failed to 
find the child?” 

“They went to her home, but she had been absent for 
months; no one could give any information as to her where- 
abouts. ” 

“She was careful to destroy all identity between her true 
and assumed name and as Hollidale is a slow, plodding town, 
I doubt if one of its inhabitants know of her being an actress. 


PASSION PAST. 


225 


I always addressed my letters to Madmoiselle D’Harleville 
at her own request, although 1 never suspected any reason. ” 

u It was thirteen years ago; can you recall any event of that 
time?” 

U I will look over her old letters,” she answered wearily. k4 I 
think we must put off further conversation until tomorrow; I 
feel ill and worried and think I must retire— Oh yes, what 
does this mean that we hear nothing from the Thorntons? I 
looked all day for Hiram to come.” 

u It is strange that he has failed to put in an appearance. 
I’ll tell you what I will do. I will run up on the train tonight, 
for no doubt my friend is surprised at my long absence; 
then tomorrow I will call on the Thorntons and ascertain the 
cause of their silence. ” 

She nodded acquiescence to his plan, accompanying him to 
the door. 

“Mr. Walworth, is this Woodland in New York?” 

“Unfortunately no, but will be in a few weeks. He has 
gone abroad.” 

“I expect my cousin’s return in October. It would seem 
strange if they were to run across each other on their way.” 

“And unpleasant, too, I fancy.” 

“Well, good night, hoping you will call to-morrow even- 
ing and relieve our anxiety.” 

“Good night, Madam!” 

“Such an adventure as I have had!” was his greeting the 
following night. 

“Why, Mr. Walworth?” she asked smiling at his rueful 
countenance. 

“I don’t think I am a coward by nature, but I could face 
any danger with less trepidation than that virago.” 

“Which flattering soubriquet means Rachael, I suppose. 
You must have had an adventure, tell me about it.” 

“I own that it was with a horrible sensation of fear that I 
followed the path leading to the cottage,” he began, “at last 
1 stood cowering at the open door and my timid knock was 
answered by a man like tread which I took to be Hiram’s but 
which proved to be that of his wife. Her light eyes traveled 


226 


PASSION PAST. 


from head to foot and back again until I hoped a knot would 
fall out of the oak board and let me through; at last the pain- 
ful silence was broken by a snarl: 

“Be ye the feller Glennie run away with?” Judge of my 
feelings Mrs. Kinne! but knowing that she could not kill me, 
I replied with all the courage for which I am justly cele- 
brated: “I be.” 

“I s’pose then you’ve come for ’er duds?” 

“Duds?” 1 repeated feeling completely at sea.” 

“ ‘Yes, duds, ye fool!’ And then followed — but I refrain. 
The conclusion deduced from her pithy remarks was that I 
had persuaded that poor child to leave her home for my own 
base ends,” and a tide of honest shame swept over his hand- 
some features.” 

“She surely did not dare!” 

“Yes, Mrs. Kinne, and she still persists in the belief — 
while I — 1 never conceived any possible destiny for myself 
until I saw Coralietwo days ago.” 

“Would this be right Mr. Walworth?” the other asked re- 
proachfully. “The child’s restoration -to her parents must 
first be accomplished. ” 

“It would be absolutely wrong to take any advantage of 
her condition and not for worlds would I do so; but to return 
to my adventure; the woman transfixed me with one look and 
two words: ‘Stay there!’ I stayed, and in a few minutes 
she returned with this.” Stepping to the door he soon laid 
before her astonished gaze an old fashioned carpet bag filled 
to its utmost capacity. 

“ ‘There’s her duds — now git ye wolf in sheep’s close!’ And 
needless to say, I got, holding fast to that poor child’s duds.” 

“You didn’t see Hiram then ?” the other asked when both 
had again become sober. 

“I never thought of Hiram. How is she this evening, Mrs. 
Kinne?” 

“Hopeful, especially, after I told her you had offered to 
follow up the clue. I also told her you came last night, and 
had agreed to come to-night that we might make out some 
plan and for this cause it would be better for you and I to 


PASSION PAST. 


227 


see one another without her presence. Oh, Mr. Walworth, I 
haven’t the courage to tell her of my cousin’s agency in this.” 

“Then I should not. I shall start to New York to-mor- 
row.” 

“Glennie agrees to remain with me for the present. Will 
it be better to keep her in ignorance of our suspicions?” 

“I think so, anyway, until her parents return. She is nat- 
urally sunny tempered and hopeful, and I think it will be 
better for her to go on for a few weeks than to disturb her by 
uncertainties. I’ll run up to the city and see Ferrit — Wood- 
land’s lawyer. I may hear something from him.” 

“I didn’t tell you, Mr. Walworth, that the Thornton’s were 
married here, and my cousin was one of the witnesses, and 
in looking over some old letters I found one written in July, 
of the same year Glennie was stolen, in which she alludes to 
the death of his little girl.” 

“May 1 hope to say good-by before leaving to-morrow. I 
should like to see Coralie again,” he said, on leaving a few 
minutes later. 

“Come any hour, for I know she would be disappointed if 
she does not see you again.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


Ferrit sat in his office busily engaged with a huge pile of 
papers and letters lying on his desk. One would suppose the 
name implied a wizen face, villianious little eyes set far back 
under beetling eye brows, thin lips drawn tightly over strag- 
gling tobacco stained teeth, and soiled cravat, and linen: and 
the office over which this paragon presided, dark dirty and 
cobwebby. 

On the contrary the room was clean and cheerful, a yellow 
canary swinging in its cage near the window almost splitting 
its throat in an effort to attract the attention of its fat and 
jolly owner. Yes, Ferrit was sleek and cheery and clean 
from the snowy linen and — teeth to the unblemished heart 
within. 

The door suddenly opened admitting the small adjunct nec- 
essary to a prosperous lawyer’s office. 

“Mr. Walworth to see you Mr. Ferrit!” 

“Ah Walworth, boy! I’m glad to see you back home again 
— come in! I haven’t seen you for an age it seems,” was his 
greeting accompanied by a vigorous shake of the hand. 

“Just got home this morning from the Hampshire hills. 
Haven’t even seen the mater, which you ought to accept as 
complimentary to superior charms, Ferrit.” 

“I do, for all its worth — a pinch of snuff,” was the good 
natured reply. “My mirrow tells me a different story, so out 
with it at once. ” 

“Can you tell me anything of Woodland’s movements? 
the other asked abruptly. 

The lawyer eyed him curiously for a moment. “Why 


PASSION PAST. 


229 


should Woodland’s movements interest you at this time — 
even more than your mother’s?” 

U I should like to communicate with him at once if I could 
do so. I am the bearer of very strange news, Ferrit.” 

“So am I Walworth; in consequence of which I have a 
letter, probably racing all over Europe after him. What 
ever took him on this wild goose chase is beyond my concep- 
tion. Don’t beat about the bush any longer, but tell me 
what you came to tell. ” 

“It will hardly do any good till his return — ” 

“Possibly, Walworth, I can tell you even more than you 
can tell me — eh?” with a sly wink. “I think we shall at last 
succeed in running Coralie Woodland’s abductors to earth, 
don’t you?” and with another sly wink and a snap of the fat 
fingers the jolly lawyer settled back in his easy chair to enjoy 
for a moment Aylor’s discomfiture. 

“What do you mean by running them to earth? There is 
but one,” he cried unguardedly. 

“And that one?” asked the other, beaming upon him. 

“I can not tell you, Ferrit. I have promised — ” 

“ That for your promise, oh, Aylor, I see I shall have to 
unravel the knot myself. Clare Fontaine is the lady’s name.” 

“Are you a wizard or mind reader?” he asked sinking back 
nearly bereft of the power of speech. 

“What a guileless subject you are Aylor? one can read the 
name of Clare Fontaine all over your face. Any one can 
read as he runs — but enough, you and I must trust each other 
for the sake of my client; and to begin, I will tell you of a 
strange discovery I made the other day. 

Not long ago there was a frightful wreck on the N. Y. & 

N. H , no doubt you heard all about it, although the 

knowledge may have been brought to your attention less 
forcibly than to mine. 1 was sent for to attend the bedside 
of one of the magnates of the road, for he was dying. Whom 
do you suppose I saw?” 

“I haven’t the least idea Mr. Ferrit.” 

“Clayton Hereford, Ethel Woodland’s cousin.” 

“The light is beginning to break, but go on.” “He was 


230 


PASSION PAST. 


so crushed and mangled that 1 knew he had no time to live,” 
continued the lawyer, surprised at the interruption, so when he 
told me he had a confession to make, my mind instantly 
reverted to the stolen child, and I lost no time in securing his 
properly attested disclosure which is as follows: 

From early boyhood he had entertained a violent passion 
for his cousin. What then was his grief and dismay, when, 
about the time he thought to try his fate he discovered that 
she loved Woodland, a young Southerner she had met in New 
York society. Instead of crushing out his anger and disap- 
pointment he nursed and fostered it and he resolved to put 
his rival out of the way if possible. But how was this to be 
done for as he was maturing his plans, preparations for the 
wedding were going on. 

At last, pleading important business up north he went to 
Richmond in the opposite direction, for this, you know, was 
Woodland’s home; arriving there he learned that the object 
of his hatred had already started to Ethel’s home, so he fol- 
lowed on overtaking him at that little city in West Virginia 
whither he had gone in a roundabout way on business. 
Hereford took good care to keep out of sight and was unable 
to get on Woodland’s track until he left his hotel for a walk. 

The devil failed him at last for hearing a noise in a house 
which overlooked the road, he turned and fled after firing his 
revolver and, as he then supposed, leaving his rival dead; 
then judge of Hereford’s consternation when he saw him in 
New York two weeks later. 

After his cousin was married he became immersed in rail- 
road speculations, ascending step by step until he became a 
controlling power — but he never married. 

Four years after his attempt to take Woodland’s life he 
again encountered Clare Fontaine as he was making his 
usual run 

“In July was it not?” Aylor said excitedly. “No doubt 
this will prove to be the missing link, for then the child was 
stolen.” 

“From my standpoint it is not — but to continue: In col- 
lecting tickets he came face to face with her. The 


PASSION PAST. 


231 


recognition was mutual, but on her part was succeeded by a 
look of such absolute terror that he was surprised and felt 
constrained to look for the cause. A sleeping child lay on 
the seat beside her, its head on her lap, but covered with 
some sort of a veil. Probably it was the fear in the girl’s 
face that sharpened his curiosity to such a degree that he 
raised the veil. He instantly recognized the child and turn- 
ing to the frightened girl he said sternly: 

“ ‘Miss Fontaine, I should like to have an explanation of 
this. How comes my cousin’s child here?’ ” 

“ ‘Not here, Mr. Hereford! not here! Wait until I have 
a better chance than now before these people.’ He told her 
that was the only chance, and to give his own words he said 
to me: ‘The end of it was, Clare Fontaine and I signed, 
sealed and turned ourselves over to the devil that night. Our 
mutual compact being, that she should go on her way unmo- 
lested and unquestioned and Ethel should never hear of my 
attempt on her husband’s life, for I was sure he had never 
told her. I felt no scruples, but rather a fiendish joy in 
being avenged, tor my heart had grown hard. Clare Fon- 
taine assured me the child should be placed in an excellent 
home and I never saw it afterwards, neither could I ever look 
on the poor heart broken mother’s face, and for thirteen 
years we have never met; but now I can not die with this sin 
on my soul. Find Clare Fontaine and force her to give up 
the child.’ This, Ay lor, is the astounding revelation I list- 
ened to.” 

“It seems to me, Ferrit,” said Aylor angrily, “this Here- 
ford’s life consisted of — disjointed links— of going so far and 
lacking the courage to go on. ” 

“There are many such who evince this irresolution, who 
cannot even become great criminals, because they haven’t the 
firmness to go on with what they begin, except in a passive 
way. Hereford could keep silent until the king of Terrors 
forced the confession from him; but he could not have 
planned and executed as she did. I doubt if she ever divul- 
ges the whereabouts of Coralie Woodland.” 

“No need to ask Clare Fontaine, Mr. Ferrit. for my busi- 


282 


PASSION PAST. 


ness with Woodland is to take him to the place where his daugh- 
ter has been hidden for thirteen years.” 

“Are you mad, Walworth?” he cried with staring eyes. 

“I left Coralie two days ago in New Hampshire alive and 
well, and as pretty a little maiden as you ever saw,” replied 
Ay lor triumphantly; and then followed a hurried recital of 
all the reader already knows. 

“And now what’s to be done Mr. Ferrit?” the young man 
asked at the close. 

“Done? what in the devil’s name can be done but wait, 
wait, wait? no doubt my letters will follow them all over 
Europe, make a clean circuit of France and come back to the 
place to which I addressed it thirty minutes after they will 
have sailed for home,” and having in a measure relieved him- 
self, the good man settled back and glared at his companion. 

“Mr. Ferrit, you are getting as red as a lobster!” 

“I tell you Walwoith what I’ll do! I’ll send a cablegram: 
that’ll fetch him,” the other interrupted. 

“Where to?” 

“Havre, yes to Havre: it won’t do any harm and it may 
reach them. Come with me and I’ll send it at once.” 

“And it may find them in mid ocean; are you sure they are 
in France?” 

“They were to make a short tour before starting for home. 
I tell you what Walworth there’d be hair pulling to kill if 
those two happened to meet over there wouldn’t there?” 

“I hope the meeting will be on our own soil.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


“Woodland, if you have arrived at that hot bed of corrup- 
tion — Paris, do not allow the siren’s voice to lure you to a 
week’s repose, but turn your face at once toward America. 
Come at once! By the way, I hear the actress, Madmoiselle 
D’Harleville is over there. Have you met her in your wan- 
derings ?” — Ferrit. 

“Such sedition from an American is almost enough to break 
the backbone of our treaty with France; but it’s very little 
Ferrit cares. Why, he may have news, Ethel! bless my soul! 
he must have news, or he wouldn’t have sent this on top of 
his grumbling letter. I’ll secure passage in the Nantuck at 
once!” and he threw the message into his wife’s lap. 

“Horace, Ferrit did not ask about this actress without a 
purpose. There is some hidden meaning. Oh, Horace, 
what if there should be news?” and there flashed into her 
blue eyes the look of hope that had so often died out in 
despair. 

A few days before our party had crossed the channel and 
having spent a few days in Calais, had proceeded on to Havre, 
where they found the cablegram awaiting them; and they 
resolved to obey the summons at once. Ethel was growing 
restless, and traveling had ceased to be a recreation and 
diversion, so the following day the three were among the 
passengers of the New York steamer Nantuck. 

c T am now bidding adieu to my father’s native land. Its 
shores recede further and further from view until but a faint 
line separates it from this broad expanse of water. And to 
what am I returning? A prison cell? A prison cell! So 


234 


PASSION PAST. 


this ignis fatuus which for years has impelled me onward — 
this outgrowth of unrestrained passions — these distorted con- 
ceptions of the true philosophy of human existence, to end 
thus? To such a goal have the inconsistencies of philosoph- 
ical skepticism led me ! 

“At times, even yet, I wonder if it is the dread of such a 
fate, or the consciousness of having arrived, through reflec- 
tion, at the true view of the enormity of my sin, that is strug- 
gling for the supremacy over me. But 1 have now gone too 
far to draw back, no matter what the penalty may be. After 
all it is preferable to this ever-present nemesis. Honors 
have been showered upon me — wealth is mine, adulation and 
homage have been laid at my feet; yet through it all the 
spectre has been by my side, whispering how unsatisfying 
they are — ” 

Such were the reflections, expressed in low tones, of a lady 
who stood on the deck of the homeward bound steamer Nan- 
tuck, as she moodily contemplated the scene stretching out 
for leagues around her. 

Her reflections were suddenly arrested by a slight noise, 
and turning quickly she was surprised to see standing near 
her a young man of sixteen or seventeen years. A startled, 
anxious expression passed swiftly over her face and she 
caught at the rail to steady herself; but making a strenuous 
effort to regain self-control, she said pleasantly: 

u My young friend are you, too, bidding farewell to the 
last bit of green we shall see for many days?” 

The shade of mortification at being detected melted away 
from his fair, boyish face under her smile, and he replied 
with the candor of youth: 

“I confess, lady, my thoughts were less of the bit of green 
than of you.” 

“And to what conclusion has the study brought you?” she 
asked, curiously regarding him. 

“That I know of but one lady in the world as beautiful, 
and that one is my own mother. ” 

“Spoken like a loyal son!” she replied, with a low, musical 
laugh. 


PASSION PAST. 


235 


“But oh, lady! your face was so sad as you stood there 
looking at the shore. Are you unhappy, also?” 

“Your question implies unhappiness for another,” while 
some strange emotion seemed to stir her. “My young friend, 
am I right?” 

“Yes,” he admitted; and she saw a mist had gathered in 
the blue eyes now turned seaward. 

“I am glad, after all, to lose sight of the land, for I am 
anxious to get home,” he added, after a moment’s silence, 
with a motion of his hand toward the shore. 

“Home?” she said, in a low, bitter voice. “My boy, going 
home may mean everything to you, while to me it is but 
an empty sound — for you the word ‘home’ may be full of 
sweetest music: to me it is a funeral dirge.” 

“How sorry I 4m to hear you say that!” he said sympa- 
thetically. “I should like to have you meet my mother. I 
am sure you would like one another.” 

“Thank you for the implied compliment which means that 
you like me and as a natural result, she would also. Is your 
mother with you?” 

“Yes, she and papa;” the other smiled at the title of boy- 
hood days that clung to him in spite of his five feet, eight 
inches; but he continued, “Mamma can not keep her feet very 
well and has lain down. We have been traveling so steadily 
that she needs rest; but when she comes into the cabin, I hope 
you will meet her.” 

“In one thing we are alike, I think, and this is, we find the 
confines of cabin and state room unpleasant.” 

“I hate to be shut up like a woman. I want to see every 
thing. ” 

“Of an exploring turn of mind, eh? With such an adven- 
turous spirit we may expect to see you down in the steerage 
yet.” 

“I’ll draw the line at the deck;” he said good humoredly, 
“why the people down there are composed of the most de- 
graded element of every country and as such, papa says are 
unfit to be associates for the sons of gentlemen.” 

“But my friend, think for a moment. There are boys and 


236 


PASSION PAST. 


girls among them just as dear to their parents as you are to 
yours. There’s a warm place in my heart for the boys and 
girls — and little children.” 

“I had a little sister once — but I lost her years ago. I said 
awhile ago, I know one unhappy person; it is my mother for 
she has never forgotten,” he went on, unmindful that her 
form was trembling and her face deadly white; then with a 
wrench she collected herself sufficiently to say: 

“You say your mother is beautiful and as she is associated 
with myself in your thoughts, I infer that she is dark.” 

“Dark? no indeed! she has the loveliest golden hair and 
the bluest eyes ” 

“We must be extremes indeed;” she managed to say, 
though she felt as if her tongue were stiffening, “would you 
mind telling me your name — or, are you, like mj^self, trav- 
eling incognito?” 

“Are you really? How funny it seems! mine is Percy 
Woodland.” 

She leaned heavily against the rail of the quarter-deck. 
She had felt sure of it from the first, but there is always a 
certain degree of security in uncertainty. The boy’s voice 
was becoming a torture and she must get away from the 
sound to recover herself. 

“Well, Percy — may I call you? I think I must retire to 

my state room for awhile. I hope to see you every day.” 

“What may I call you lady? When you meet my parents 
how am I to introduce you?” 

“Your parents may be more discriminating than to take up 
a nameless passenger on an ocean steamer, Percy. Good 
by!” and in an instant the boy was alone. 

“I’ll go at once and tell mamma about her. 1 wonder who 
she can be?” and soon he was eagerly repeating his adventure 
to Ethel. 

Pie watched anxiously, the following day, for a glimpse of 
the sad, beautiful face that had so strongly stirred his sym- 
pathetic, boyish heart; but he watched in vain, for she did 
not appear. 


PASSION PAST. 


237 


“What an enthusiast you are, Percy!” said his mother, 
smiling fondly at the handsome boy sitting near. 

“But, mamma, she is so different from other ladies. There 
is something so mysterious and melancholy about her; and 
she asked all about you. ” 

“Asked about me? Why, Percy, why should this mys- 
terious stranger ask about me?” Ethel said, quickly. 

“Are you sure of this, Percy?” questioned his father. 

“Of course I am sure, papa,” forgetting, in his eagerness, 
what had led to the unknown lady’s interest. 

“And she would not tell her name?” 

“She said she was traveling incognito. I believe she is 
some great lady in disguise ” 

“Some great adventuress, more likely,” the other inter- 
posed. “So, after learning your name she refused to give 
hers, eh Percy?” 

“I didn’t think of it in that way, but now since you speak, 
I believe it did happen so,” he answered, thoughtfully. 

“Horace,” spoke the wife, the general melancholy habitual 
to her fair face giving way for the moment to a look of hope, 
“who can this lady be who takes an interest in us? Can it 
be that she is hiding from us?” 

“It does seem strange that this embodiment of all the 
graces of mind and body — this paragon of all the virtues, 
does not show herself. Percy, what is her personal appear- 
ance — dark, or fair?” 

“Dark and foreign-looking, with the loveliest eyes I ever 
saw, great, sad, dark eyes.” 

“Ethel,” trying to speak carelessly to the woman with the 
longing, far-away look in her blue eyes, “I think, if you don’t 
mind, I’ll take a turn on the quarter deck, — no, my son, you 
need not come; look after your mother.” 

“There may be nothing at all in it,” he mused, pacing the 
quarter deck; “but living in such uncertainty and suspense 
makes me suspicious of every one, and like a drowning man 
catching at a straw, everything like a mystery arouses the 
old spirit of disquiet and longing for action. There’s not a 
hair, however tine, that does not throw its shadow, and I am 


238 


PASSION PAST. 


sure it is something so small as to be overlooked that has 
robbed me of my daughter. As soon as I return home I 
shall go on to Hollidale myself and take up that trail. It 
has seemed very strange that the detectives could find no 
trace of Clare Fontaine — and, possibly, 1 did not attach suf- 
ficient importance to her threat. Well, captain, we are hav- 
ing fine sailing weather.” 

“Aye, aye, sir!” responded that functionary who had for 
a moment paused, his hand resting on the rail near Wood- 
land; “but this time of year’s mostly dry sir, not much rain 
at sea this month, sir.” 

“Fair weather, heavy cargo and cabins full. What more 
could a seaman want, Captain ?” 

“Yes, the old Nan tuck is about full; steerage packed, sir! 
I tell you sir, our country is being overrun with foreigners. 
Attila himself was never a greater scourge than John China- 
man; and now the Huns again and the Belgians and dirty 
Italians and Nihilists! Yes sir, the country will be blown to 
atoms in a few more years, sir. ” 

“Yes Captain, this indiscriminate outpouring upon our 
American shores, is an evil to be deplored; but an evil that 
nothing but legislation can ever reach; and such an action of 
that august body you nor I shall live to see — the mills of our 
country grind slowly. Is there much sea sickness Captain?” 

“Well no, not a great deal, sir. A few men scattered 
about squaring accounts with the sea, but not many ladies, 
sir.” 

“My young son has been much interested in one of your 
lady passengers — a dark eyed lady of middle age — and as he 
has not seen her he feared she might be ill. ” 

“Ah sir! that’s a fine boy of yours, sir; a fine boy that any 
father might be proud of. A dark eyed lady, eh ? I suppose 
it’s the one that don’t want to be generally known, sir.” 


CHAPTER XXXLV. 


“She became quite a favorite with Percy and to please 
him I thought I would ask about her; but of course if she is 
unwilling to be known that ends it,” and Woodland turned 
his eyes seaward to hide the eager look in them. 

“Well, now sir,” began the other, visibly weakening, 
“your son being such a line lad, I am sure the lady would not 
object. She is Madmoiselle D’Harleville, the French 
actress.” 

Woodland could hardly hide the disappointment he felt 
at hearing a name that told him nothing. “Ah yes, Pve 
heard of her. Percy will be glad to -know his friend is so 
distinguished a person. Is she sea sick, Captain, that she 
does not come among us?” 

‘Yes, she is sick to-day sir. The doctor calls it nervous 
prostration from overwork. Nervous prostration is a com- 
mon disease among actresses — sweeps them off fast sir; and 
this one has been acting in Europe sir.” 

“We must hope it will not sweep off our friend, Captain,” 
trying to repress a smile. “Should the ladies, offer her any 
assistance?” 

“I think not sir, as she has her maid who understands her, 
thank you sir.” 

“Yes, that will be best. Good evening Captain!” 

“Good evening sir!” 

“Suddenly seized with nervous prostration is she? A safe 
bulwark behind which to conceal herself from curious eyes. 
It has an air of something deeper than a mere desire to avoid 


240 


PASSION PAST. 


intercourse with fellow passengers,” he muttered, as he 
returned to his wife and son. 

“Ethel, I have made as trance discovery! Percy’s mysteri- 
ous ‘lady’ proves to be Madmoiselle D’Harlville.” 

“What does it mean, Horace? You remember Ferrit? 
Have you seen her?” the conversation was being carried on 
in a low tone that Percy might not hear. 

“She keeps her room on a pretence of illness, but I intend 
to see her,” he said significantly. 

“Oh Horace, what is it you suspect? Surely this woman 
can not be in any way connected with our loss.” 

“I don’t know what to suspect, but Percy must know noth- 
ing of this — our suspicions, I mean.” 

“Our teacher of natural history said not long ago, that 
Jules Verne hardly carries us too far in his beautiful pen 
pictures of the deep and of the numberless creatures which 
feed upon the vegetation of its ocean bed. How grand his 
‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea!’ with its wonder- 
ful tales of the different inhabitants of these dark waters! and 
that one of the men hunting! and that burial place! I don’t 
believe I should mind such a grave with a tombstone of coral, 
and those flowers and sea weed for a shroud — ah, is it you 
lady?” 

“Are you contemplating that trip to the steerage, Percy?” 
and her hand was laid caressingly upon his shoulder. 

“No indeed! I have been taking a little walk with Jules 
Verne through the coral and sea weed,” he said gayly. 

“To those of your age such walks must be delightful. I am 
glad to see you again before we land. 1 have been so ill I 
feared I should not do so.” 

“I have missed you, oh so much! When we became ac- 
quainted the other day, I hoped we would see one another 
frequently.” 

“Where are your parents, Percy?” 

“Mamma is resting. She is not very well, and my father 
is talking politics with some gentlemen. I don’t like politics; 
do you?” 

“Boys as a rule dislike the thing from which a few years 


PASSION PAST. 


241 


exclude them, and this must be especially true of the admirers 
of Jules Verne; but you may yet have your day on the polit- 
ical battle field. And you have missed me, Percy ?” looking 
at him kindly. 

His handsome face flushed with shy pleasure. 

“And I have missed you Percy. Your fresh young face is 
a pleasant sight for the eyes of a wearied woman of the world, 
Percy,” she pursued, regarding him wistfully, “I think I 
shall dub you my noble knight.” 

4 4 And right valiantly will I do battle for my fair liege 
lady,” he laughingly cried. 

“To the death Percy?” her voice had an anxious, husky 
tremor in spite of her effort to speak calmly. 

“Even to the death although I hope my sword and lance 
may never be needed.” 

4 ‘No Percy, I shall require no such test of loyalty and 
prowess. The favor I would ask of my young knight is a 
small one.” 

“It is already granted, dear lady” — he hastened to assure 
her. 

“No, no, Percy. I was once a creature of impulses and 
have been taught many a lesson. I therefore do not wish to 
take unwary advantage of so generous an offer. Tomorrow 
is our last day on shipboard, so will you come out at this 
hour ? I shall tell you then what the favor is. Will you, 
Percy?” 

“I promise to be here. Oh, here comes my father! I 
want you to meet him.” 

She hastily drew the veil she wore more closely, so as to * 
conceal her features. 

“I have found you, my son. Is this lady the new friend 
of whom you told us?” 

“This young gentleman and I have indeed become good 
friends,” she'replied at once feeling that she was brought to 
bay. “No doubt you have come in quest of him and that 
reminds me that I have outstayed the time prescribed for 
myself, so I bid you both good night, ” and with a graceful 


242 


PASSION PAST. 


inclination she would have passed them, but Woodland did 
not intend to let her off so easily. 

“Must you really go? I am sorry I did not come in quest 
of Percy sooner,” he spoke in a slightly sneering tone, but 
she bravely stood her ground. 

“We, Percy and I, are sorry also, for then we may have 
had the benefit of your views on the 'subjects we have been 
discussing.” 

“And those subjects, Madame — may I ask their nature?” 

“The mighty wonders of the deep — politics, and of the old 
days of chivalry and knight-errantry. I hope you will allow 
me to pass, sir.” 

“I hope, even in this progressive age, neither has become 
obsolete, therefore you can pass, Mademoiselle .” 

He saw the haughty form reel slightly under his stab. 

“You don’t like this lady, papa!” said the warm-hearted 
boy, following his father’s suspicious scrutiny of the receding 
figure. 

‘ ‘I hate mystery, Percy. Misfortune has taught me to do 
that. What has that woman been talking about?” 

“She told you. Jules Verne’s stories. There was nothing 
mysterious, I assure you. And she may have reasons for 
withholding her name.” 

“Your penetration is not less keen than your heart is ten- 
der, Percy; she evidently has her reasons. Let us return to 
your mother. She asked me to look for you. See here, my 
son,” pausing a moment, “I don’t like the woman and wish 
you to be careful.” 

The following evening she found the boy waiting, but she 
instantly saw the change, for his eyes met her own less 
frankly. 

“Something has come over my young knight since yester- 
day. ” 

“No, no! at least not much. My father doesn’t like this 
mystery about you, though no doubt he is too severe— but 
we have had a great sorrow, and he has become suspicious of 
everything he don’t understand clearly.” 

“Percy,” the proud lips trembled and the dark eyes filled 


PASSION PAST. 


243 


with tears as she laid her arm about him. “I have a confes- 
sion to make regarding this sorrow of yours — of your lost 
sister Coralie; but I can not tell you unless you promise to 
keep silent until we get into port.” 

“You are cruel to keep us in suspense!” he cried indig- 
nantly. “Why do you? What is it you have to tell? Mv 
father warned me. ” 

“Hush, hush, Percy, for heaven’s sake!” she implored, 
looking fearfully around. Can you not understand that your 
mother must not hear of this until she has reached her own 
home. It was because I knew how brave you are that I 
asked you to meet me here, knowing the joy it would give to 
you to take the good news to her. Will you promise, 
Percy?” 

“What do you want me to promise? But it is only twenty- 
fours after thirteen years waiting. Yes, I promise.” 

“Will you carefully secrete this sealed letter about your 
person, and as soon as you shall have reached horn© give it 
into your father’s hands. Don’t be afraid, but do it at once, 
for, as your father already suspects me he may follow us. 
You shall not regret it, Percy, for in twenty-four hours you 
will know all. ” 

He took it reluctantly, and put it in an inner pocket of his 
coat, saying warningly: 

“My father can tell the moment he sees my face that I am 
keeping something from him.” 

Looking into the frank blue eyes, a pang of shame passed 
through her soul. “Percy, did yo\i ever feel the need of a 
friend? There is no one I can trust but you, and remember, 
’tis not a guilty secret I trust to you, but one which will 
bring happiness, before another sunset to your broken hearted 
mother. ” 

“Ami never to see you again?” 

“Yes, for without that the letter would be useless,” she 
answered. 

“But my sister; you have not told me if she is alive.” 

“Alive and well Percy, else where would be the joy of it 
all?” I shall bring her to you in a few day^ the letter will 


244 


PASSION PAST. 


tell you all. Oh, my young friend! promise me that you will 
not hate me when this great happiness comes to you.” 

She staggered and would have fallen had he not caught and 
supported her with his strong, young arm. “Hate you?” 
he cried pityingly, “I could never do that dear lady. Next 
to my mother I promise to love you all my life. How could 
I hate the one who gives my lost sister back to me — my little 
twin sister?” 

She took the beautiful boyish face between her soft palms 
and gazed for a moment into his blue eyes. 

“Percy,” she said, “will you some day when alone with 
your father, tell him, that in sack cloth and ashes, I have re- 
pented that day in Hollidale, that nothing but sorrow has 
followed me ever since, w T ill you?” and before he realized her 
design, he felt her lips upon his own, and the next moment 
he was standing alone on the deck. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


“Horace I am sure there is something very serious the 
matter with Percy. Can it be that the ship is infected with 
some dreadful disease and he is going to be ill,” and the little 
mother’s face looked anxious as she watched her boy pass on 
to the deck as if he wished to be alone. 

“Nonsense, Ethel!” nothing ails your duckling. Enough 
troubles come unsought, that you need, with the aid of a 
candle, try to explore the dark places for imaginary ones.” 

“But he acts so strangely Horace, and have you noticed 
how nervous and pale he is ? and how he seems to try to 
avoid us?” 

“He is only home sick. The moment he gets home he 
will be himself again?” he tried to reassure her. 

And although both tried to delude themselves into believing 
this, their uneasiness increased, until it had changed to posi- 
tive alarm and dismay, upon seeing the deathly pallor of his 
face as he descended from the carriage that had conveyed 
them to Woodlawn. 

“Tell me Percy, my darling, what it is? I can bear it no 
longer. Are you ill, Percy?” 

“No, no, mamma, not ill,” a joyous light breaking out 
over his face as he sank on a sofa. “Send the servants away, 
mamma. I must talk to you and papa alone and at once.” 

The father instantly complied by turning to the fright- 
ened group gathered about the door to welcome home those 
to whom they were strongly attached. 

“Master Percy is taken suddenly ill. Wilson, will you 


246 


PASSION PAST. 


and the others leave us for a few moments? He will see you 
almost immediately.” 

“I wonder if that blessed boy is going to be took, too?” 
whispered the housekeeper to the butler, with a mournful 
shake of the head. 

“It really do look that way, it really do, Mrs. Wilson; and 
it was mostly such a day as this the other went.” 

“Yes, mostly, being that was in August, and this only a 
month later. You could most see the chill of death on that 
sweet boy’s features and the angel smile trying to force its 
way through — O, Lordy! O, Lordy!” 

“Now, Percy, out with this wonderful thing at once and 
don’t keep your mother in suspense.” 

“I lay awake all night, trying to think how to tell you, for 
she made me promise not to tell you till we reached home. Oh, 
mamma, sister Coralie is found! The lady has gone now to 
bring her home to us,” Percy answered, hysterically. 

The faces of both parents blanched, though not for a mo- 
ment did either believe the words of the boy to be true; then, 
with a pitiful cry, the mother fell on her knees before him. 

“Percy, who has told you this old story we have heard so 
often that it almost ceases to surprise us?” — 

“Then you doubt me, mamma? It is true, for the lady I 
met on the steamer has gone now to bring her to us. ” 

“Madmoiselle H’Harleville! Ethel, you know Ferritt in- 
quired about her. Percy, tell us everything she said,” the 
father commanded, hoarsely. 

“You know when you saw her two evenings ago, papa? 
A moment before you came she had pleaded with me to meet 
her at the same place the following evening, that she had 
something to tell me; and when I went last evening she gave 
me this to give you, with the request that I would not do so 
until we arrived home, that mamma might be spared the excite- 
ment while on board the “Nantuck.” 

Woodland took the proffered letter in his hand and for a 
moment gazed as if fascinated at the familiar handwriting. 
“It is as I have suspected all along,” he muttered half audi- 
bly, sinking into a chair while an ashen huo overspread his 


PASSION PAST. 


247 


face. The long vanished past arose before him, and an echo 
from the long ago came floating on his ears — “Then, my 
curse shall fall upon you, Horace Woodland!” 

“ ^ insult, when we think it is forgotten, 

Is written in the book of memory 

E’en in our hear-s to scourge our apprehension.” 

“You haven’t opened her letter papa. It will tell you 
everything much better than I can,” aroused him from his 
trance. 

“True, true, I had forgotten the letter,” he replied in a 
trembling voice, and his hands shook so he could hardly break 
the seal. “Clare Fontaine! Her revenge has indeed fol- 
lowed me!” he cried out. 

‘ ‘Clare Fontaine ? ” came from his wife in a voice of anguish, 
“Horace! Horace! What ails you? Clare Fontaine! Who 
is Clare Fontaine that her name comes to me like a long for- 
gotten dream to mock me at such a time as this ? If you can- 
not read her letter I surely may as it concerns myself evi- 
dently, as well as you. 

“Ethel, give me a a moment’s time. I do not know what 
this letter may contain. Ferrit! Ethel, why didn’t we think 
of him at first? I shall have him in a moment, thanks to 
this.” And before the astonished wife and son could remon- 
strate, he was at the telephone bell. 

“Horace, there are some things we should keep to our- 
selves,” the mother said in a wounded voice. “If Ferrit is to 
see the contents of that letter why may not I ? ” and her over- 
wrought feelings unable to bear more gave way in an ago- 
nized sob. Her husband caught the slender, swaying form, 
saying in a tender voice, in which guilt and shame were visi- 
ble: 

“Ethel, my wife, how much could you forgive your husband? 
The letter which tells us of our lost one may also contain 
something less pleasant. ” 

“After living in expectancy for thirteen years, surely we 
can now bear the truth, no matter how unpleasant the cir- 
cumstances may be.” 

Without another word, he gave her the letter and turned 


248 


PASSION PAST. 


from her while she read it from the beginning to the ending 
— turned to meet the accusing, reproachful eyes of his young 
son. 

‘‘Papa, who is this Clare Fontaine, and why this confused 
mingling of her name and that of Mademoiselle D’Harleville? 
and why should you refuse to read her letter ?” 

“Do you presume to sit in judgment upon your father’s 
actions, Percy?” the other cried sharply. 

“You know I do not, papa,” the tears of wounded pride 
springing up, “but the discovery that my little sister is found, 
it seems, has made us more unhappy than we were before. I 
can not understand it. ” 

“It is the source from whence the discovery comes that so 
tills me with shame as almost to exclude the joy.” 

“Shame, Horace?” Ethel said, laying her hand on his arm. 
“No, no, dear, you mistake.” 

“Can you, then, forgive?” 

“The limit of a wife’s forgiveness is a vast one, immeas- 
urable I think, and having for so long borne a common sor- 
row we will not spend this hour of rejoicing in raking up the 
past. Read her letter and let us thank God for our child’s 
restoration.” 

“Mamma, here comes Mr. Ferrit! must he be told about 
Madmoiselle D’Harleville?” said Percy as he caught sight of 
his old friend coming up the steps. 

“What can you know of that most estimable lady, Percy?” 
he interrupted in surprise. 

“We came over together and became great friends,” was 
the boy’s answer. 

“Great friends indeed! Woodland, I have an idea when 
you know as much of that woman as I do, you will hardly 
approve of such a friendship. I’m glad to see you at home 
once more Mrs. Woodland; a sight of your face is like a ray 
of sunshine. ” 

“And we are glad to be at home. Mr. Ferrit the most 
wonderful news has greeted us on the threshold. Our child 
is found — ” 

“Ferrit take this letter and read it aloud. It speaks for 


PASSION PAST. 


249 


itself. The woman explains everything in this which she 
gave to Percy. Read it Ferrit.” 

Perplexed and astonished he complied, saying as he glanced 
at the name: 

“That Coral ie is found is no news to me Mrs. Woodland, 
for I have known it for several weeks, but I had no idea the 
woman would voluntarily confess. Yes, yes, Clare Fontaine 
alias D’Harleville, alias the devil knows what — begging your 
pardon, Madam.” 

u Mr. Ferrit,” cried the boy valiantly, “she’s the grandest 
and loveliest lady I ever saw and you’ll all feel ashamed when 
you know her better.” 

“I think when you know her better you will be ashamed 
of your fealty to a bad woman who seems to have bewitched 
you,” the other retorted with a smile at the boyish arrogance. 

The letter concluded with the words: 

“I became a victim to remorse with the first downward 
step and I can no longer stifle her cries, but have resolved in 
expiation to submit myself to the law I have broken. When 
you read this, come to Raymond, New Hampshire, where 
you will find your daughter awaiting you. Meet us at the 
‘American Hotel.’ My reason for asking this is, that you 
may see her present home; also for Douglas’ sake there will 
be less publicity. 

Horace Woodland, I ask for no mercy, for my sin against 
Coralie’s mother is unpardonable. My life’s happiness has 
been sacrificed to the desire for revenge for the wrong you 
did me. It has prevented me from linking my sinful life with 
the noble one of Douglas Maitland, who has hoped for eigh- 
teen years that this obstacle, the nature of which he has 
always been ignorant, might be removed. 

Clare.” 

“Woodland,” observed the lawyer dryly, as he took off his 
spectacles and vigorously blew his nose, “for once, a young 
would-be masher paid dear for his whistle. ” 

4 ‘She is nobler than I after all, Ferrit. Her’s is a volun- 
tary confession, while, like a coward, I have said nothing of 


250 


PASSION PAST. 


my own share in the affair,” he began humbly: but Ethel in- 
terrupted him with loving words, her arms clasped about 
him. 

“Horace, think! Our brown eyed darling waiting for us — 
Coralie, our long lost baby! Percy, do yon know what this 
means to you ? a grown up sister to share your life! Call Wilson, 
and let the glad tidings resound throughout the house, from 
attic to cellar — the lost is found — our child that was dead is 
alive! O God, I thank thee!” 

The boy rushed off to do her bidding; “Tell them all to 
come and rejoice with us!” she called after him, and soon a 
glad shout was heard, followed by the sound of hurrying 
footsteps, and Wilson and the butler, with Percy between 
them heading the little procession, entered the room. 

Soon they were made acquainted with all the facts necessary 
for them to know and instructed to prepare a welcome for 
the girl they would see in a week at most. 

“We shall have to leave everything in your care for a few 
days longer Wilson as we start this afternoon for New 
Hampshire,” Woodland said as they filed out again. 

“Mr. Ferrit will remain for lunch, Wilson,” added Ethel. 

“I madam? Thank you! As I have the strangest news yet 
to tell you and it will take some little time 1 don’t care if I do. 
Woodland, I just found this folded in the letter — a draft for 
three hundred. Quite a windfall I declare!” 

“Three hundred? The amount I left with them in payment 
for their kindness and which the daughter chose to consider 
an insult. What is it you have to tell us Ferrit?” 

“Strange! remarkable! almost as extraordinary as this state- 
ment we have just heard. Mrs. Woodland, prepare now for 
the pleasant sequel to our romance, yes the sequel dear 
Madam! I had no idea when I came that I should find the first 
volume intact, though. There were a few dropped stritches 
that bothered me . ” 

“Now I remember you spoke before as if you knew all this 
Ferrit,” interposed Woodland quickly. 

“Surely it proves a comedy of errors — you haven’t seen 
Aylor of course?” 


PASSION PAST. 


251 


“We just arrived and have seen no one.” 

“Mrs. Woodland, our romance contains one sad feature — 
your cousin died not long ago,” the lawyer said with a gentle 
blow of the legal proboscis. 

u My cousin Clayton! oh my poor cousin!” the tears rushing 
to her eyes. “Tell me how, and where my boy playmate 
died Mr. Ferrit. Something seemed to come up and we 
drifted apart, but I never knew till to-day,” a tide of color 
passing over her face at the recollection. 

At the close of the recital, she said in a broken voice, “His, 
at least, was a disinterested affection. The reminicences 
which seemed then to mean so little come up now in the light 
of this unhappy knowledge. That very picture for his watch 
charm and many little things I could not understand. I think 
if you will come with me, my son, and Mr. Ferrit and your 
father will excuse me, I will go to my room.” 

When the two gentlemen were alone, Ferrit told of Aylor’s 
accidental meeting with Coralie, giving in detail all the facts 
already narrated while his listener sat with eyes rivited on 
his face. 

“Ferrit,” he said, his voice trembling with long suppressed 
emotion, “I have felt like a scoundrel, at a miserable disadvan- 
tage to-day with Ethel’s reproachful eyes upon me, and 
Percy’s full of suspicion. I have felt myself a coward before 
them: but to you I solemnly swear before heaven that I was 
unconscious of having done Clare Fontaine any wrong. I 
will tell you what has never passed my lips. The girl was 
beautiful and romantic and before I had any idea of it had 
fallen in love with me and did not possess sufficient command 
over herself to hide her infatuation. The last night I spent 
at the cottage, after a trying interview, I retired and had 
fallen asleep. It was probably eleven o’clock that I was 
aroused by a low sob and upon opening my eyes I saw her 
bending over me as if in the act of kissing me. I was a fool- 
ish, passionate boy and the poor girl’s utter self abandonment 
appealed so strongly to my senses, for I was half asleep, that 
regardless of the place and hour I drew her down on the bed 
beside me. “Ferrit!” he cried indignantly, on seeing a merry 


252 


PASSION PAST. 


twinkle in the eyes looking into his own, “as sure as there’s a 
heaven above us I would not have taken an unworthy advant- 
age, for she was as innocent as a child.” 

“You should have labeled yourself ‘taken,’ in the first 
place Woodland; but for a man so soon to be married, you 
used every precaution by telling her such was the case,” 
Ferrit observed dryly. 

Woodland’s face flushed, “I was no worse than other men 
and idle was an innocent unsuspecting girl. It was for this 
reason that her implacable hate has followed me, for the 
humiliation she suffered fur having lain in my arms that 
night. All the years that have passed have been too few 
in which to efface the memory of that. She admits having 
learned to love this Maitland, though who Maitland is the 
Lord only knows. 

Ah Clare Fontaine!” he continued starting up, “you have 
indeed kept your word! My long lost child! Ferrit do you 
know whether it will do to bring Coralie home after all? 
Suppose she’s like a dairy maid — awkward and unrefined. I 
should have to put her in school at once.” 

“1 don’t think from what Ay lor tells me you will need to 
blush for your daughter Woodland; even if you should, he 
will be willing to take her off your hands just as she is.” 

“Surely Walworth has not dared to take advantage?” 

“Tut, tut Woodland! Aylor is a gentleman, and though he’s 
run up to New Hampshire two or three times to look after 
her, I’m sure he hasn’t spoken a word of the kind to your 
daughter. ” 

“I am not one of your noble heroes Ferrit, but if he cares 
for Coralie, perhaps, in time I may listen to him but not now. 
Our rights must first be considered.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


OLD LETTERS AND NEW. 

They were scattered all about the floor, forming a snowy 
trail, from the yawning trunk to a great heap in the centre 
of the room and ending in a tiny pile of grey ashes on the 
hearth. Letters of business, letters breathing of college days 
now growing yellow with passing years, letters on matters 
spiritual and temporal, begging letters, and a few others 
written in a delicate feminine hand and with a faint odor of 
dainty perfume over them. 

Evidently the sole occupant of the ‘ ‘den” had taken this 
rainy, disagreeable day for a thorough overhauling of this 
accumulation of past years, for drawers, trunk and secretary 
had been made to dislodge their epistolary contents to swell 
the general riot of conflicting elements. 

Still, he was naturally a very tidy person as, aside from 
the litter, the room with its handsome filrniture, spotless 
curtains and tinted walls plainly attested. 

He religiously went through this yearly renovation, which 
just as surely ended in the tiniest pile of grey ashes on the 
hearth and all the others reconsigned for another year to the 
yawning trunk with the words: 

“I haven’t the courage after all to destroy all that is left to 
show me I ever had a youth — next year I may perhaps. Poor 
old Tom and Hal! One is dead years ago — the other gone 
west and married. Then there’s the little bundle of Charlie’s 
and Lizzie’s — dear kind sensible Lizzie — this is written just 
before Charlie was taken sick and this from Lizzie telling of 


254 


PASSION PAST. 


the new baby; and here’s another dated the same year Clare 
went to New York — Ah! is it you Mrs Fletcher? come in!” 
turning with a half preoccupied air to the woman, who had 
opened the door. 

“Hoity, toity Mr. Maitland! you don’t mean to tell me 
they’re going this time? The postman just came and here’s 
your mail.” 

He laughed good naturedly. 

“Only a little annual straightening up Mrs. Fletcher; so 
you see I’ve no time to look at it now. Put it there on the 
table for the present until I go over this rubbish a little 
more,” he answered leisurely and carefully tying up a bundle 
yellow with age and safely depositing it in the very bottom 
of the trunk. 

“Its high time I’m thinking,” the other grumbled, — “for 
of all — pitch the whole lot of them into the grate and be done 
with them for once. I don’t believe you have done that for 
the last ten years.” 

He looked at her for a moment dispassionately and reflec- 
tively, though over his handsome face there stole a look of 
sadness and weariness. 

“Now, now Mrs. Fletcher! you wouldn’t rob a lonely 
bachelor of all the reminders of his youth would you?” he 
protested throwing another package into the yawning recept- 
acle. 

“Oh well, have your own way, which I’m thinking you’ll 
have anyhow. My! what a day it is — almost a gale with the 
rain blowing that dreadful everywhere, and the hail that 
makes a pinch of fire comfortable enough. I must go and see 
about dinner for its four o’clock. Here’s the mail on the 
table, two papers and a letter and a heavy one it is at that.” 

“She’s a good old soul with a strong antipathy to sentiment 
and untidiness,” he muttered resuming his work as the door 
closed behind her. “Here is one from my little New York 
parishioner — Florence Barrett, bearing a date way back in the 
seventies; and to think she is now a happy wife, the mother 
of two great handsome, manly fellows and a popular and suc- 
cessful author, while I—.” 


PASSION PAST. 


255 


The unfinished sentence died away in a weary sigh. 

u My mother said to me when I held in my hand a copy of 
“Hermione” bound in blue and gold; she writes, “This, Florence 
is a beginning of the realization of my hopes for you. I have 
waited until now to say why I objected to your marriage to 
Charlie Osborn, whom I was certain you would not have 
cared to marry, had he been a poor man for you did not love 
him well enough. I felt that you possessed intellectual 
and Christian elements of character, worthy of a higher 
development than, as a leader of fashion such as you may 
have become, could have been possible. As the wife of a 
man, whose social ambition is to excel in the latest figures in 
the German, I know you would be in danger of sacrificing a 
future of which any girl might feel very proud for that of a 
narrow minded gossiping butterfly, and then Charlie has such 
a fitful temper.” 

“And hoi ding in my hand, the volume to which are entrusted 
my highest and best thoughts and convictions, I felt sure the 
little mother was right in breaking off my marriage with one, 
who treats his wife unkindly and spends his evenings away 
from home.” 

“It is a long time since she wrote this — so long that all the 
gold is worn off its covers, but each year brings another until 
there is quite a row of Florence’s works over there on the 
shelf.” Douglas said turning the key of the lock of the 
trunk. 

“Now I will look at these. Ah! I did not know,” he mut- 
tered, “to think for the past hour her letter has been lying 
here and I never knew!” 

As he stood bareheaded in the strong light of the window 
one could see the same look of womanly sweetness about the 
mouth. He carried his age well, though his hair was slightly 
gray. 

Lakeview, in the State of Pennsylvania was near the line 
separating that State from New York and contained probably 
twenty-five thousand inhabitants. Like other cities of its 
kind, its temporal wants were attended to by the usual guar- 
dians of the civil laws: and rendered distressingly healthy by 


256 


PASSION PAST. 


the competitive skill of ten or twelve disciples of allopathy, 
two or three of those reared in the homeopathic faith, and two 
“quacks.” 

Its spiritual needs were provided for, from — forgive the 
simile — a common delta, which was supplied by various 
streams — Catholic, Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Methodist and 
Baptist. 

St. John’s Parish was a wealthy one; indeed, it boasted of 
one millionaire among its communicants and another who 
possessed just one half of that amount, consequently a goodly 
number felt quite exclusive and slightly inclined to high 
church doctrines though by no means favoring a schism so 
strong as Puseyism and other Anglican fathers: Still a few 
hands and eyebrows were occasionally raised in pious disap- 
proval of such inorthodox views as those held by their low 
church rector. 

Beyond a pair of candles in their silver candlesticks, the 
cross over the communion table and a vase or two of flowers, 
he would not permit. Yes, one more innovation was now 
being very gravely considered — a vested male choir. They 
had said if he would give wav in this they would no longer 
contest the other points. 

After, all a right warm feeling existed all around for he had 
labored long and faithfully among them, and he had not com- 
mitted the grave error of falling behind a progressive people. 
He worked indefatigably, making himself and people noted 
for their kindness to the sick and needy. Some wondered 
that their worthy rector pursued his way seemingly content, 
impervious to the beauty and excellence of the fair portion of 
St. John’s laity as he was a bachelor, and his household genius 
a good old widow lady in indigent circumstances — Mrs. 
Fletcher. 

He held the letter in his trembling hands gazing at the 
familiar superscription, feeling a commingling of hope and 
dread. Upon opening it he found a dozen closely written 
pages and the date was several weeks old. He read the words 
at the head of the first page: “Dear Douglas, I write you at 


PASSION TAST. 


257 


last a full confession of the secret of my unhappy life. Read 
it and deal with me as you will.” 

With a cry— “Oh God! I thank Thee!” he leaned forward, 
laying his head on the table and wept for very thankfulness. 

And it was a full confession, withholding nothing from the 
beginning to the abduction of Coralie. At the close she said: 
‘ 'That I may put it out of my power to recede from my reso- 
lution to right this terrible wrong, I have written an exact 
copy of this to be given to Horace Woodland immediately on 
my return from Europe to which country I sail to-morrow, 
to fulfill a contract for a few months. I have sealed it with 
instructions for it to be opened should any unforeseen contin 
gency arise. 

If in his just anger, Horace Woodland imposes the full pen- 
alty for this crime it will be but a fit ending for such a life. 
On the other hand; if I am permitted, I wish to go back to 
Hollidale and mature plans for work I have been contemplat- 
ing for some time, for Douglas, even could years of expia- 
tion atone for my sins, your people with their peculiar ten- 
dencies could not condone such a mistake as taking for your 
wife one who has offered them an hour’s amusement before 
the footlights.” 

"They would not dare refuse to receive as my wife one 
whose shoes they are not worthy to fasten,” he said pas- 
sionately. “I shall put an end to this one way or the other. 
Oh Clare, my love, did you think I would give you .up now, 
dash the cup of happiness from my lips now it is within my 
reach ? give you up after having spent the best years of my 
life in almost hopeless waiting? No, God helping me, I will 
give you the remnant of my life if I have to resign St. John’s 
parish. ” 

As he talked he opened a small drawer of his writing desk 
and took from it a package of letters which, when unfolded 
showed the graceful chirograph/ of Clare Fontaine. One by 
one he read them unmindful of the clinking of china and 
silver in the dining room adjoining, announcing the near 
approach of his bachelor dinner. 

Then he again went carefully over the one he had fust 


258 


PASSION PAST. 


received, until each word was indelibly fixed upon heart and 
mind, and gradually, as he realized all it meant for him, the 
old melancholy smile gave place to one of subdued happiness; 
and, although, whatever joys life might still have in store for 
him, they would never entirely efface the lines traced by the 
conflicts of past years, still he would gather up the fragments 
of his broken wasted life with gratitude. Wasted? We 
hardly meant that! 

“Mr. Maitland!” He raised his eyes from the pages en- 
countering the grim visage of Mrs. Fletcher. 

“Well did I ever?” she cried at last stung into impatience 
by the look of dreamy indifference. “Here I’ve rung the 
bell and the soup’s getting that cold and the baked chicken 
that hard and dry, and behold I find you over them same old 
letters without a thought of changing your coat for dinner — .” 

“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said tranquilly, “There is nothing I 
would not do to please you. I have even been considering 
one of the greatest sacrifices of a life time to give you happi- 
ness. ” She eyed the handsome happy face with suspicion. 

“I’m sure I haven’t the least idea what you’re driving at; 
but I know that dinner ’ll not wait another minute.” 

“I will take just one half that time to replace these, another 
to change my coat and presto! I, am deep in the mystical 
properties of your incomparible soup. There! it is all done 
and I am ready.” • 

Though almost consumed with curiosity she would not ask 
question she longed to have answered until the pudding was 
reached; then she could keep silent no longer. She said: 

“You look mighty pleased Mr. Maitland. Did your letter 
contain good news?” 

“The very best of news Mrs. Fletcher” he replied a merry 
trinkle in his eyes. “Just the news I have for fifteen years 
been hoping to receive. Fifteen years is a long time to wait 
for good news Mrs. Fletcher. ” 

“My! I think so. Of course I’m glad. Is that what you 
meant when you were talking awhile ago ? I don’t suppose 
you meant anything, really.” 

“It meant a great deal to you Mrs. Fletcher. I am going 


PASSION FAST. 


259 


to turn all those letters over to you to burn, make sofa 
pillows, — anything. Just think of the sofa pillows Mrs. 
Fletcher, to suit every mood. Love letters to rest your head 
on when you’re sentimental, college ditto, when retrospec- 
tive — .” 

“My goodness — !” in her astonishment she could go no 
farther. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


In one of the best rooms of the second lloor front of the 
“American Hotel” were seated our two friends, Clare and 
Coralie. The girl held in her hand one of those little yellow 
messengers which sometimes mean so much, her eyes, for the 
hundredth time, perhaps, eagerly taking in the few words, 
and then impatiently turning to the clock on the mantel, 
whose hands seemed this morning to be moved by leaden 
wheels and springs. 

“We will be there at ten. Have our daughter with you,” 
were the magic words that danced before her brown eyes. 
“Fifteen minutes past nine, Miss Fontaine! forty-five more 
before they come.” 

“Don’t be too impatient, dear; and then, you know, the 
other gentleman comes first.” 

“And then I’m to hide. Oh, Miss Fontaine, you’re as white 
as death! See! I’m not frightened! only glad that I’m going 
to see my parents at last. And you’ve really seen mamma, 
Miss Fontaine? and papa’s rich, is he? As if I’d care for 
that! There! there! Miss Fontaine, I hear someone coming, 
so I’ll go into that room and wait.” 

Clare’s face turned ghastly as she watched the closed 
door. “It is he!” she whispered as she heard the servant’s 
voice saying respectfully, “This is the lady’s private parlor, 
sir!” 

She stood still for a moment facing him, her hands out- 
stretched in mute appeal. He saw her reel as if about to fall, 
and sprang quickly to her side and caught her in his strong 
arms. 


PASSION PAST. 


261 


u Oh Douglas, I needed you, longed for you, so I sent. 
Tell me at once what my sentence is to be,” she said in a 
broken voice. 

“What is it to be my sweetheart, my heart’s darling?” he 
replied with infinite love and joy at her self abandonment. 
“What can it be but the same it has ever been? that you are 
mine from this time forth to love and cherish.” 

But she extricated herself from his arms and stood apart 
sorrowfully regarding him. “You forget Douglas,” she 
began. 

“I forget nothing Clare!” he cried passionately. “I know 
you have come through the fire purified. ” 

“No, no, I have not Douglas. Any atonement I can make 
deserves no merit, for nothing but your faith in me has 
brought me where I am today. You remember telling me 
years ago your love would know no limit, and you have never 
failed me. ” 

“I waited so long Clare, surely you will not withhold hap- 
piness longer,” he pleaded. 

“But Douglas, you forget Horace Woodland and the atone- 
ment I must make — years in prison perhaps.” 

“Why Clare, my darling! vHiat strange fancies are these? 
Horace Woodland will be too grateful for the restoration of 
his daughter to think of further revenge on you. Well 
might he expect a curse for so heartless an act, so away with 
such fears ! To-day you leave the old life behind you. Say 
you will Clare,” he still pleaded, his strong handsome face 
convulsed with feeling, he no longer cared to conceal. 

“Sit down Douglass,” she said gently, a wistful look com- 
ing into the dark beautiful eyes. “I forgot we have been 
standing all this time.” 

“Where is Woodland, Clare?” he asked and for answer she 
handed him the telegram. 

“And the daughter?” 

“In the room watching at the window for their appearance 
no doubt. ” 

“Indeed? then she is fully prepared. Trust me Clare to 
help you through this; and also trust the child and her mother 


262 


PASSION PAST. 


to adjust everything. Why where is the mother who wouldn’t 
forgive any wrong at such a time?” he tried to speak hope- 
fully, for now the time was come for this meeting between 
these two, he saw her courage was failing her. 

4 ‘Douglas, ” she said in agitation as she heard the tread of 
many feet in the hall outside, “Horace Woodland and I have 
never met since that day in Hollidale — heaven help me!” 

At that instant there appeared in the doorway four gentle- 
men and a lady and at last the grandly beautiful Clare Fon- 
taine stood confronting her enemies: but before a word was 
spoken the door of the adjoining room was thrown open and 
Coralie stood revealed. 

The faintest blush swept across her cheeks as she glanced 
at Aylor, but her eyes turned quickly to the golden haired 
vision of her dreams, and for a moment lingered there. The 
others stood spell bound watching the mother and child; then 
a radiant flash of recognition and a low joyous cry broke the 
silence. The voice of nature, however mute, had reunited 
them. 

“Oh mamma, mamma! No need to tell me you are she,” 
and with a bound she was clasped in the loving arms that had 
been empty so long. 

“No need, my blessed baby, no need,” the happy tears 
gushing from her eyes. “One look into my darling’s face is 
enough. Percy, my son, come here and speak to your sister. 
Here is your twin brother, Coralie.” 

“I say she’s a beauty though,” he said, shyly advancing. 
“Why, mamma, she is the prettiest girl I ever saw,” in a 
tone of conviction not to be gainsayed. 

“We are forgetting in our selfishness the claims of others, 
my darling. Your father is here — ” 

“I have been wondering when my time would come for a 
share of that,” exclaimed Ferrit, merrily. “Come my dear 
at once to the arms of your old dad!” 

The girl turned and looked timidly into the jolly, fat face, 
her eyes finally resting doubtfully on the bald head. 

“Is he my father?” her voice expressing disappointment 


PASSION PAST. 263 

which caused a smile to go round the room. “I didn’t imag- 
ine my father to be so — fat and— bald.” 

“That’s enough Ferrit! Get oft' the earth and hide your 
ugly face. My little daughter, cannot you remember your 
father?” and next instant her curly head was pillowed on- 
W oodland’s breast. 

So absorbed had been the little reunited family that they 
had no eyes for the other occupants of the room, but now 
Clare felt a light touch on her arm and turned to encounter 
Percy’s gaze. 

“I am here Miss Fontaine. I hope you are as glad to see 
me as I am to see you.’’ 

u Glad, my young knight?” clasping his hand tenderly; 
the revulsion caused by his affectionate greeting nearly over- 
coming her. “After to-day your father will never allow you 
to unsheath your sword in my defence. Has he told you 
every thing, Percy?” 

“Yes,” he replied with evident relunctance, “that is I sup- 
pose about every thing. I heard the letter read you gave 
me.” 

She felt the hot blood come into her face at thought of her 
shame in this boy’s eyes. “Then I am quite sure Percy, 
your father will not approve of any intimacy.” 

“Oh yes he will, Miss Fontaine — ” further speech was cut 
short by the voice of his sister. 

“Papa, this is the kind lady who came and told me, Miss 
Fontaine, and you must thank her if you are really glad you 
have found me.” 

Woodland stepped forward with a stern look on his hand- 
some features, and Clare met him coldly. For an instant 
they looked steadily into each other’s eyes, then she broke 
the silence by saying gravely: 

“Mr. Woodland, I have told Coralie nothing of my com- 
plicity in this affair. You may feel that I have taken an un- 
worthy advantage, by withholding such information, of the 
gratitude she naturally feels for my agency in her restoration 
to you; but this is not true, and I leave it for you to say if 
the particulars shall now be told her.” 


264 


PASSION PAST. 


“Then you have made her your dupe as well as Percy 
there, but you surely can not expect mercy from me.” 

“Do your worst Horace Woodland, I ask none,” she 
answered proudly. 

“Present me to this gentleman Clare,” spoke Douglas, 
“then leave this matter for us to settle.” 

“Not a word in my defence Douglas; it is as he says: I 
deserve no mercy nor do I expect it, allow me,” taking in the 
whole group with a sweeping movement of her hand, “to 
present to you the Reverend Douglas Maitland my friend 
and self appointed counsel,” and without another word she 
walked haughtily to a window and stood there with her back 
to them all, in a manner that showed the proud spirit was not 
entirely subdued. The old evil spirit gave a litlle tug at her 
heart, determined that she should not yet pass out of the 
range of its power. But the sound of a voice she knew to be 
Ferrit’s arrested her bitter thoughts and she again faced her 
enemies. Woodland looked somewhat crestfallen though 
endeavoring to hold his ground as Ferrit urged: 

“Leave further explanations until some future day Wood- 
land. Be happy to-day for the first in thirteen years and 
leave all needless bickering and strife out of it.” 

“Although 1 hardly deserve the right of a stipulation Mr. 
Woodland, I do ask that my trial and sentence be allowed to 
come quickly that I may be spared needless suspense.” 

An ugly sneer came into his face “Have you shown so 
much consideration for her parents that you dare ask any 
favor from them ? 5 ’ 

“I know how useless it is. As I have said I am at your 
mercy. I have broken certain laws. A judge must impose 
a penalty in accordance with the law broken, and I shall spare 
myself the pain of dispising myself as I must do under the 
consciousness of having sued for clemency.” 

‘Horace, Horace surely I may now speak,” interposed the 
gentle voice of Ethel, “Our child has been restored to us by 
a voluntary act of Miss Fontaine, and now we may certainly 
temper justice with mercy. It will not give us additional 
happiness to prolong this feud. The opportunity is yours to 


PASSION PAST. 


265 


show a spirit equally noble with hers; avail yourself of it .* 

“I think that clincher must break the backbone of this war 
between you two Woodland. Suppose we leave the matter 
to this little lady. She should have a voice at least, what 
say you Coralie — eh?” 

“I know so little Mr. Ferrit,” responded the girl blushing 
shyly, “but to me there seems but one decision possible — to 
grant what this lady asks. I am sure I can never be happy 
knowing we have made her unhappy: can we brother?” 

For answer the boy stepped quickly to the side of Clare. 
“This lady calls me her young knight, and I have promised 
to defend her, even to the death,” he cried impetuously. 

A ripple of laughter, low and subdued, went round, Wood- 
land even catching the infection. “If I have seemed less 
kind and magnanimous than the others, Miss Fontaine, I ask 
you to overlook it. I can not withhold forgiveness from the 
daughter of the lady who was once so kind to me.” 

“Nor do such sentiments shame your manhood, Mr. Wood- 
land. You were not altogether blameless,” said Douglas. 

“I was not. I can see it now La Reine.” 

“If you indeed forgive me, spare me those silly reminis- 
ences, Mr. Woodland. That name has been hateful to me 
since that day.” 

“My opinion is that all those reminisences may be effect- 
ually drowned in a social glass of wine. Science proves to 
my thorough satisfaction that nature abhors a vacuum, and it 
will take at least one glass to fill the vacuum created by two 
days jolting over a rough road.” 

“Then Ferrit, the vacuum must be filled, so oblige me by 
securing rooms for a couple of days; for it will require that, 
no doubt, for this young lady to break herself loose from 
her old ties and learn to adjust herself to the new. ” 

“I must go to see Uncle Hiram once more, papa,” the girl 
replied, while her eyes became moist. 

“We all intend to see Uncle Hiram,” said her mother. 
“I think we had better follow Mr. Ferrit, Horace, we have 
already intruded on Miss Fontaine too long.” 

They stood there silently studying one another for a mo- 


266 


PASSION PAST. 


ment or two, Clare and Ethel; for no direct communication 
had yet passed between them. Each recognized the nobility 
of the other, and their hands met. 

“I feel that you and 1 must be friends. There is a bond 
between us. You have suffered, have had much to bear,” 
said the one sympathetically. 

“You are a saint to say those things to me, after all I have 
done,” breathed the other, gratefully. Those few words 
only, and the thing was done; all constraint between* the two 
forever broken down, and a friendship which was to 
last through life was cemented by that hand-clasp and heart 
to heart insight. Ethel felt that this woman had been made 
to suffer through her husband, though the manner must always 
remain unexplained and vague, and she was able to read 
something of the misery in the soul through the soulful eyes; 
so she gave the hand a little tender pat and looked up, for 
Clare was at least a foot the taller. 

“Life is not yet ended for you. Marry this good man 
who loves you, and then the best part of it will come,” she 
said softly. 

“He is too good and noble to link his life with my shat- 
tered one; yet through it all he has had faith in me.” 

“Then I know everything will come right. Make as much 
as possible out of the remainder of your life. I think we 
will go now and remove the dust and travel- stains from our 
clothing. ” 

“This parlor is yours as long as you will honor me, Mrs. 
Woodland. While you are changing your clothing let me 
order dinner brought here. ’ 5 

But the other demurred, wisely concluding, at this embar- 
rassing time, separation for the present less awkward for all. 
So with many expressions of good will the little party went 
out, leaving Douglas and Clare together. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


“Douglas,” spoke the lady, her eyes for a moment linger- 
ing on the form of Woodland, and then turning to the strong, 
handsome man beside her, “what could I have seen in that 
man?” 

“He is undeniably handsome in his way, and when young, 
may easily have seemed charming to a romantic young girl 
of seventeen,” he answered with a touch of humor. 

“Yes, that must have been it; but, Douglas, I could not 
have found happiness in that after the first glamour had worn 
off; then such a nature as his would have failed to satisfy . 3 
She turned her eyes with the light of revelation upon him in 
a way that set his pulse to throbbing. 

“One error of that period of a girl’s life is that she does 
not discriminate between the shadow and the substance — the 
tinsel and the gold. A budding mustache and long curling- 
lashes are far more to her than ties of harmony, mental and 
spiritual. ” 

“And his were faultless Douglas,” with the merriest laugh 
he had heard since her girlhood, “yet,” she continued more 
seriously, “what so potent for good or evil as this selection 
of one who must bear, suffer or enjoy with her, life in all its 
.phases?” 

“Clare, those years lost out of your life and mine would 
have been happier ones if you had been surer of yourself and 
made the selection the day we parted at Richmond.” 

“Possibly, Douglas,” she said with a sigh; “yet the spirit 
of discontent was in me; and, although he may have failed to 


268 


PASSION PAST, 


satisfy me, I would have failed to appreciate you as you 
deserved, and in time you would have been disappointed.” 

“Clare,” he said suddenly, “what is this scheme you are 
considering ? Surely nothing that would longer separate you 
and me?” 

“Even now my faith in myself is not wholly restored. 
Peccavi! Douglas! the sting still remains, and I feel no as- 
surance of God’s forgiveness,” she returned gloomily. 

“That must come with earnest, sincere atonement, so why 
this doubt dear when the fruition of our long deferred hopes 
is reached? I had hoped that this restitution would bring 
peace. ” 

“It has inasmuch as convictions of righting a wrong com- 
mitted have been satisfied, together with a certain sense of 
justice; but lam sometimes assailed by the thought that there 
is no heart-felt sorrow for the sin itself.” 

“You mean dear,” he said compassionately, “that, while 
conscience clearly defined the only line possible, such as it 
might have done for a savage or a — Roman or some other as 
impossible as either, you do not feel the consolation that the 
Christian must feel for a sacrifice made.” 

“Something akin to it I fear,” she answered in a low 
troubled voice.” “One often hears of the solace following a 
duty done; the joy emenating from a peaceful conscience but, 
some still, small voice that will not be stifled, tells me this is 
not all; tell me why Douglas.” 

lie bent over her, joy illumining his face as he saw her soul 
struggling to burst the shackles of sin that had so long 
bound it. 

“Far be it from me my darling to try to cheat you by any 
false sophistries; but, 1 can not think that such a self surren- 
der to duty could be made except the soul were growing 
world weary and tired of sin. It remains with you but to 
consecrate the coming years of your life — may they be many 
Clare, to God, He will surety send the Comforter to you; 
can you not believe this?” 


Heaven is not reached by a single bound, 
But we build the ladders by which we rise 


PASSION PAST. 


269 


From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. 

And we mount to the summit round by round.” 

“Had I but come to Him in youth and surrendered my 
heart to him with the fervency with which I yielded it up to 
that carnal love eighteen years ago.” 

“Clare, the germ of true nobility and goodness, took root 
within your heart at your birth, and though watered by a 
gentle mother’s tears and nurtured by her prayers, in spite 
of all, rank weeds of pride and discontent grew up, threat- 
ening for a time to overgrow and choke the pretty flower; 
but thank God that He has made you strong to rise in the 
strength of a glorious womanhood and crush out the hideous 
thing.” 

She was weeping softly now, bitter penitent tears, and his 
own eyes grew moist with sympathy, again he continued: 

“Clare, my darling, you need the sunshine of happiness 
around you to make your life complete. I cannot go and 
leave you to-day without a promise that you will not keep me 
waiting very long.” 

“But Douglas! you forget that your church will be unwill- 
ing to receive me. Aside from such prejudices, there may be 
other reasons — differences in religious belief and tenets of 
doctrine to which they would object, but which I have no 
right to sacrifice.” 

A spasm of pain for an instant contracted his brow for he 
knew these might prove true. There were ladies in his 
parish, unworthy to untie this woman’s shoes, yet, they would 
draw aside their dainty skirts in passing her. Then he said 
bravely: 

“For a moment you quite alarmed me Clare: but you and 
I know one another too well to let, to allow mere doctrinal 
tenets come between us. No doubt I shall astonish you by 
something I am going to say — I intend to resign my parish 
and go away from Lakeview to some new field.” 

“I am surprised Douglas and fear I am in a measure 
responsible for such a decision. Shall 1 tell you now of my 
own scheme for the future?” 

“Yes, I have wondered.” 


270 


PASSION PAST. 


“The idea is not a new one. I think it was born in the 
period that remorse began, possibly to appease awaking con- 
science.” She paused for a moment. 

“It must be assuming vast proportions by now,” he said 
encouragingly. 

“So vast that it covers acres of ground with grassy lawns, 
pretty fountains and lovely flowers, and amid all these there 
stands a great big home like edifice on whose door plate are 
inscribed five words — “Home For God’s Little Ones” What 
do you think of it?” 

“I think the idea a grand one; but where is it to be?” 

“About New York, Douglas, where I have seen so much 
misery undeserved and riches squandered; luxurious idleness, 
and wretched starving children seeking in vain for a < crust of 
bread among the cinders. I have, in a sense, loved my pro- 
fession but I think the secret motive spurring me on has been 
based on this idea of mine. I have more money than I want 
and wish to give every dollar to this enterprise, reserving 
only that which my stepfather left me which will be ample 
for all my wants. It has been lying at interest for so long 
that it is a snug little fortune. Now what do you 'think of 
my castle building Douglas?” 

/‘I hope it may prove more than castle building and I see 
no reason why it shouldn’t materalize, why may we not work 
together Clare? You have money and I the — brains, shall we?” 

“Give me time to think it over. I must return to Holli- 
dale for awhile. I haven’t seen my old home for years. I will 
write to you when I am settled once more.” 

They parted that afternoon, his last words sounding in her 
ears — “may the Lord watch between me and thee when we 
are absent one from another Clare, and may He aid you in 
carrying out the many plans conceived for the good of the 
homeless ones He will send you.” 

As the south bound train left the depot that afternoon, 
Percy’s boyish face was the last she saw, for he had slipped 
away from the others and accompanied her. 

“May I write to you occasionally Percy?” she asked him 
in the moment of waiting. 


PASSION PAST. 


271 


u Oh Miss Fontaine! do you really mean it?” he began 
eagerly, then suddenly paused. 

‘ 4 What is it Percy ? What does that cloud on your face 
mean?” she asked perplexed. 

“Are you going to marry Mr. Maitland?” 

“Yes, please God some day before long Percy,” she replied, 
hardly unable to hide a smile, now she understood the jealous 
ring in the boy’s voice. 

“After all my promises to you Miss Fontaine? and I would 
have given up everything, even Bessie. ” 

“And who may Bessie be you darling foolish boy?” 

“She was my sweetheart, Aylor’s sister you know.” 

“Ah! then Percy, I hope you may prove true to her, and 
some day I may come to your wedding. Good by! good by! 
my young knight.” 

He returned to the “American” pondering in his boyish 
way the eternal mysteries of human love, and there was a 
little ache in his young heart that never quite left it until 
brought under the spell of Bessie’s dimples and merry laugh- 
ter three days-later. 

He found them still lingering around the dinner table, the 
adoring eyes of all turned upon the merry face of his newly 
found sister: but the little party immediately went to their 
private parlor. 

“So they are gone, Maitland and Miss Fontaine,” the 
father observed. “Its strange they left so soon with relatives 
living here. By the way little gill we must see those rela- 
tives.” 

‘ ‘Indeed you must. Mrs. Kinne has been the best friend 
in the world to me, except Uncle, I must always except 
Uncle, papa,” her young voice growing tremulous, “We 
never slept at all last night, we talked and laughed and cried 
so. They tried to make me lie down awhile but I was too 
much excited to sleep. ” 

“You shall never spoil your pretty eyes again, and now we 
all bow to }^our sovereign will Right Royal Little Lady, as to 
our departure from the White mountains, we hope it may be 
soon. ” 


272 


PASSION PAST. 


A happy little laugh was the answer, from our merry song 
bird whose notes have been silent so long, as her pretty head 
nestled on her father’s shoulder and a soft little hand stole 
into his. 

“A few hours will be enough to gather up my worldly 
possessions papa, but I can not go without seeing uncle. I 
have tried twice and failed, but I must try once more.” 

“Suppose Horace we all drive out there to-morrow, it is 
but six miles Coralie says,” her mother said. 

“I have a lot of things there, she may let me have my 
books and ever so many little things.” 

“Books?” from the father with a humorous twinkle in his 
eyes that sent the blood flying to the girl’s pretty sensitive 
face and her brown eyes in Aylor’s direction, “you needn’t 
mind the books little girl, the library at home I think will 
supply you with all you need.” 

“These may be treasures Woodland that even the library at 
Woodlawn cannot replace, your daughter may surprise you 
as she has me,” her friend interposed, feeling amply repaid 
by her look of gratitude. 

Aylor knew the poor little country girl had felt awkward 
and shy and sensitive when this elegant handsome man, the 
lovely girlish looking lady and tall refined boy had claimed 
her as belonging to them. 

“Yes, yes,” her father quickly replied regarding her with 
new interest, “I didn’t think of that. How many may there 
be?” 

“Three or four dozen perhaps. We need not mind: but 
papa I have been thinking. Let us go and see Mrs. Kinne 
this evening and to-morrow drive out to Uncle’s: then that 
will be all.” 

“Coralie!” cried Aylor ruefully, “please leave me out of 
to-morrow’s pleasure. I lack the courage to go through it 
again. If you had seen her you wouldn’t blame me.” 

“Indeed Auntie is not so bad as she looks. She had her 
good days. She taught me to be useful and I can cook, wash 
iron and sew. I feel quite accomplished. ” 


PASSION PAST. 


273 


“Spare our sensitive nerves sis!” her brother cried shud- 
der ingly, “A Woodland to wash and iron! Ugh!” 

“Your sister will never have to go begging for one to ap- 
preciate the accomplishments young man,” growled Ferrit. 

She looked puzzled, not in the least understanding him, and 
ashamed to ask an explanation. Woodland quietly studied 
the -two young people, satisfied in the end that there was 
nothing more than a friend y interest especially on the part 
of his daughter. She was a child with the utter unconscious- 
ness of a child. 

“You must remember little daughter that so far as we know 
those two names, Uncle Hiram and Aunt Rachael, are but 
synonyms for kindness for the one unkindness for the other. 
We are ignorant of the details of your life with them. You 
tell us you’ve tried twice to see the man and failed. Does 
she keep him caged or in leading strings?” he said at last. 

“It would take days and days to tell you all those two have 
been to me,” she began loyally, inclined to resent the irony.. 

“I don’t like to seem discourteous ladies, but if you will 
excuse me, I’ll take a little stroll, probably as far as our 
friend’s book store and get some late papers. Do you care 
to go along Ferrit?” 

“So brilliant a suggestion emenating from so brilliant a 
mind is worth acting upon Walworth, yes I’ll go.” 

“Tell Mrs. Kinne to expect us to-night,” called Coralie 
after them. 

“They felt themselves to be a constraint upon us and so 
thought to relieve us of their presence for awhile,” said her 
father. 

It was a pitiful little tale she told the three, her mother’s 
tears mingling with her own. But as it must always be with 
us after time has softened our resentment, and lulled and 
tranquilized the old vibrations of agony of the past, so it 
seemed with the girl when, at the close of her recital, her 
thoughts went kindly back to the author of her troubles. 

“After all,” she said, “no doubt the way uncle petted and 
spoiled me, sorely tried auntie’s soul. After going to Mrs. 
Kinne’s 1 waited and wondered for days, thinking poor uncle 


274 


PASSION PAST. 


would come; so when Saturday came without bringing him, 
I resolved to go up on the afternoon train. I found auntie 
quietly knitting on the porch but uncle was no where in sight. 
“Your undutiful conduct hes druv ’im crazy,” she said, “an’ 
he’s got the notion in ’is head that ye died an’ went to heaven 
which is a great sight better fer ’im to think than what ye 
hev done:” 

“Died and gone to heaven! What a strange hallucination!” 
her father interposed. 

“I never could understand it. When I went the second 
time he was away from home she said. Auntie must have 
hidden him.” 

“Coralie have you any recollection of us and your old home 
at Woodlawn?” asked her mother. 

“Once or twice I have been able to recall all of you; but 
as I never could resolve the shapes into anything tangible, 
not knowing anything about you, I dismissed them as fancies 
or dreams.” She scanned the three faces earnestly for a 
moment. “I have often been puzzled over a faint recollec- 
tion of a home so differsnt from our cottage with its rag 
carpets and huge feather beds,” with a little grimace. 

It astonished and also gratified the parents to observe the 
air of gentility and correct manner of conversing. Her 
mother had noticed at the very first, the dainty dress of dark 
flowered silk just escaping the neatly clad foot. Everything 
about her stamping her in an unmistakable way as a little 
lady, and so different from her conceptions of a country bred 
girl. 

Though hardly aware of it she spoke her thoughts aloud. 

“I am glad you are pleased with me mamma. I was afraid 
I would appear so ignorant that you would be ashamed to 
take me home with you.” 

“You darling! parents were never so happy as your father 
and myself to-day. But just to think of our child having to 
work as you have. ” 

“The work didn’t hurt me one bit,” wiping away the 


PASSION PAST. 


275 


happy tears for now with their approval she was thoroughly 
happy once more, “though it might have done so if I had 
known of you. Why it seemed that somehow the days were 
never long enough for all 1 had to do; and then I had my 
books,” with a little flush. 


/ 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


“What a wonderfully handsome boy you are Percy!” she 
said, when for the first time, she found herself alone with 
him since their bashful meeting. 

“I say sis, none of that ! but,” he went on now at a 
safe distance from parental ears, “I have been looking at you 
and I don’t know which is the prettier — you or Bessie Wal- 
worth.” 

“And pray, who is Bessie Walworth? his sister?” 

“His sister !” the boy repeated loftily, “now as there are 
millions of ‘his’s’ in the world I am puzzled to understand if 
you refer to any particular ‘his.’” 

“You ridiculous goose! he told about his sister Bessie him- 
self,” she answered, turning on hearing her father’s voice 
speaking to her and leaving her brother somewhat crestfallen. 

Long after all the others were asleep Coralie’s father and 
lover talked, carrying their conversation even into the “wee 
sma’ hours.” 

“It would have distressed her mother and myself beyond 
measure, had you said a word to disturb that unconscious 
child Ay lor. ” 

“Yet, there was a time when I could have done so with 
honor to myself,” returned the young man, “the night I met 
her a homeless orphan as she thought herself to be,” he con- 
tinued answering the question he read in the father’s eyes. 
“I was sorely tempted, if she had consented, to marry the 
child that night, when nearly overcome with shame she 
assured me she was nameless.” 

Woodland was too agitated to reply. He arose and slowly 


PASSION PAST. 


277 


walked up and down the long piazza several times before 
trusting himself to speak. At last he paused, saying husk- 
ily: 

“I sometimes feel that it is more than I can do to forgive 
that woman and let her go unpunished. Who but a fiend in 
human form could think of anything so cruel for so trifling 
an offence?” 

“ ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ 

You trifled with her Woodland. To such, revenge was but 
natural.” 

The other flushed angrily at the touch of sarcasm, but 
checked the retort that sprang to his lips. 

“Would you have been so rash as to marry one in such a 
position as Coralie’s?” he asked irrelevantly. 

“Wouldn’t you have done so under similar circumstances?” 

“No, I don’t know that I should Walworth. 1 never passed 
for a hero; only a commonplace sort of a fellow. We owe 
just as much to you Aylor as if Miss Fontaine had not con- 
fessed: but now, having found Coralie, it will seem impossible 
to give her to any one. Time may reconcile us to the thought. 
Now she is too young for us to consider it for a moment: 
and of course she is uneducated and ignorant of the usages of 
the society to which we are accustomed.” 

“I don’t see any need for further education that will but 
spoil her. Leave her as she is, natural and pertect.” 

Woodland laughed good naturedly. “Yes, she’s a charm- 
ing little girl as she is, any father can see that. Mrs. Kinne 
told me to-night that she’s remarkably sensible for her age, 
I can not understand how she has acquired that air.” 

“Heredity I suppose,” laughed the other. “Her mind 
suits me remarkably well Mr. Woodland. I’ll go away fora 
year or two if — ” 

“1 can not even consider any ‘if s’ ” doggedly. “Think of 
her mother! just reunited! He reasonable boy, and give us a 
chance at least to become acquainted with our daughter; a half 
dozen years hence — probably.” 

“Probably I am unreasonable, what lover is not ? Were 
not you? Remember I met Coralie before you knew you had 


278 


PASSION PAST. 


a living daughter. It is the love of my life, I knew this the 
first time I looked into her brown eyes at Thornton’s. I 
know I am not worthy of her, although I have never 
committed an act to make me ashamed to look into the eyes 
of any pure woman.” 

“How persistent you are! Should the time ever come 
when I must decide this question, no one would suit so well: 
but, from every standpoint, her mother and I must regard 
this as an evil menacing our happiness, which we wish to 
avert as long as possible. This is not the first hint I have 
had Walworth.” 

“1 am very sure I have never said a word,” the other stam- 
mered with heightened color. 

“Not that such an unconscious child could understand 
probably: but, there are those whose insight is keener. See 
here boy! she must be allowed the opportunity any girl should 
have: that of choosing from more than one suitor.” 

“Were you willing for your wife to 1 ave the same oppor- 
tunity? But I will say no more than this: I will go away for 
a time — travel through the south and west — for a year or two 
and when I return — well — .” 

“ ‘If you can look into the seeds of time 

And say which grain will grow and which will not, 

Speak then to me,’ ” quoted Woodland. “But Aylor I fear 
the “wee sma’ hours” are upon us and we 

‘Can neither call it perfect day nor night. ’ I am going to 
bed, good night!” 

At the last moment Aylor backed down, declining to come 
again under the spell of Aunt Rachael’s malevolent power: 
but in spite of that, a right merry party they made as they 
drove along the wide country road on that crisp September 
morning. But, after they had passed “Parkhurst” Coralie’s 
mood changed and she lapsed into thoughtful silence. At 
last she said: 

“We are almost there now, There papa, you can just see 
the house from this bend in the road, a little further on it is 
hidden by the trees. Just down there is the place 1 used to 


PASSION PAST. 279 

hide myself with my books. It was right there where I met 
Mr. Walworth — ” 

□ Her father turned quickly at that, and looked keenly at her. 
“No girl can look with indifference upon the spot where she 
first met the man she cares for,” he thought, but if he saw a 
little flush, or detected a suspicion of unsteadiness in the clear 
voice, both vanished so quickly that he was puzzled. 

“What a spot it is! covered over with briars and moss and 
dead weeds,” Percy answered rather contemptuously. 

“Did you ever papa?” 

“No, daughter I never. I know nothing but the lovliest wild 
flowers and mosses could find root about here.” 

‘ C I suppose Percy with his countless resources would fail 
to appreciate such a place, but I had so few and these I made 
myself — now we must walk to the house from here, just up 
that little path. What time is it now papa? ten? then auntie 
has finished the morning’s work and is sewing at the window. 
Oh my goodness!” The lively chatter suddenly changed to a 
shrill whisper, as the girl clutched her mother’s arm and 
drew her back, her eyes dilating in terror. She knew that 
the slow shambling figure going up the little footpath was 
her uncle. “He has been sitting down here all alone mamma 
thinking of me,” she said with a sob. 

“Perhaps not dear. Dry your eyes and we will go and 
speak to the poor man.” 

“I must speak to him now,” breaking away from the 
slightly detaining grasp and going swiftly to the old man’s 
side, the others following her. 

“Uncle, Uncle Hiram!” she cried taking his big hand in 
her small ones, “why don’t you know me, your bad girl, 
your baby as you used to call me? oh Uncle!” 

He looked from one to another in bewilderment, evidently 
puzzled at sight of so many strange faces but he did not speak. 

Into her face came a look of dread, terrible misgiving. 

“Papa! why is it that Uncle don’t seem to know me? Why 
does he look at me so? He is so different. ” 

“You know what his wife told you Coralie? I believe the 
idea has become fixed and he has failed to recognize you. ” 


280 


PASSION PAST. 


“Don’t tell me that!” she cried out. “I couldn’t be^ir it. 
It would be too sad. Uncle, I could not have left you if I 
had thought you would take it like this.” In her wild grief 
she threw her arms about his neck. 

The caress seemed to recall something of the past, for he 
spoke at last in an awe struck way: 

“I knowed ye Glennie though I couldn’t understand how ’t 
c’d be fur I seen ye fly way off up there. I al’ays thought yer 
poor ma must ’a seen ye settin’ there cryin’ by yerself that 
day, an’ sent the angel slippin’ down after ye: So every day 
I come an’ watch fur ye. Rachael told me he’d fetch ye 
back some day, but I couldn’t believe it. Be ye really her 
at last?” he asked looking intently into her face; then passing 
his hand across his eyes as if thus to brush away the mist 
clouding his mind. 

“Auntie said it would be better to have him in the belief 
that I had died and now I think she knew best,” she said mis- 
erably. 

“D’ye know her room is jest as she left it that day? I ast 
Rachael to leave it an’ she did. She’s mighty good an’ kind 
now, Rachael is; never speaks cross nor nuthin’ anymore — ” 

“Hiram! who in the name uv all natur be ye talkin’ to?” 
All but Coralie turned, startled at the shrill unfamiliar voice. 
She had come upon the little group with noiseless tread. 

“Well! well! if it ain’t Glennie come back again!” she cried 
out in consternation. The girl laid her hand timidly on the 
woman’s arm. “Are you glad to see me auntie, or sorry?” 

“I’m blest ef I kin tell yit. Tell me who all them folks is, 
an’ how is it you’re with sich?” 

“Mamma!” Ethel turned to the boy. “Is it possible that 
sister has lived with that old cat for thirteen years?” 

“Hush son. She v\ ill hear you. She’s good and kind in 
her way and for your sister’s sake be kind to her.” 

“They are my parents and twin brother, auntie.” 

“Auntie” took Woodland’s hand coldly; then for a moment 
eyed Ethel with suspicion. 

‘ ‘Be you the errin one that left ’er on our step that night 
bawlin’ ’ereyes out?” 


PASSION PAST. 


281 


“Auntie, Auntie, no!” the girl hastened to explain. “That 
was a woman — that is I mean a lady, Miss Fontaine, Mrs. 
Kinne’s own cousin. She hated papa — I don’t exactly under- 
stand what for, and stole me away from my home in New 
York.” 

“Clare Fontaine! What! the gal that writ ’er name to me 
and Hiram’s marriage lines? She was es likely a gal es I 
ever see the night her’n Miss Kinne, ’n Mr. Kinne ’n the 
baby ’n that young preacher that married us ’n an Irish lady 
— ’er name was Bridget somethin’, come to the weddin’ sup- 
per. The way them ’n me ’n Hiram did cut up an’ frolic 
that night beat all holler. Hiram wasn’t sich a fool as he is 
now, though none too bright at ’is best. Well! well! an’ she 
stole ye? What ’d yer pap done to ’er Glennie?” 

“Ye Gods! and she calls her husband a fool!” Woodland 
said to himself with his face as red as a lobster. 

“Don’t Horace,” pleaded Ethel, softly, divining her hus- 
band’s thoughts, “It is but a moment’s retrospect, and no 
doubt is a comfort to the poor lonely soul. It takes her out 
of herself — ” 

“I hope you will kindly take me out of that woman’s pres- 
ence Ethel. What a life this must have been for Coralie!” 

The situation was becoming embarrassing to the last de- 
gree. Percy was trying to hide a laugh behind his handker- 
chief. Glancing around, the woman instinctively grasped 
the situation, and with a dash of color in her thin cheeks she 
turned to her afflicted husband. 

“Come, Hiram, an’ let me help ye to the house. Glennie!” 
with a little backward toss of the head, 4 ‘ye kin bring yer 
pap an’ ma to the house an’ take ’em to the sittin’ room. 
I’ll take Hiram round to the kitchen where I’ve got the din- 
ner bilin’.” They watched him walk slowly and cautiously 
along, as one who felt uncertain of his own strength, and as 
they followed the father said: 

“We must see to making them comfortahle for life before 
we leave. They seem to be very poor. ” 

“Oh, auntie would feel insulted if you were to offer her 
anything. You have no idea how independent she is, and 


282 


PASSION PAST. 


besides uncle has almost a thousand dollars in the bank, so 
they’re not so poor as you think.” 

“In that case, daughter, I must bow to your superior wis- 
dom, for we must avoid wounding the old lady; but I will 
give you a small check, with which you surely may be able 
to add to the attractiveness of this poor-looking place.” 

“I don’t know,” doubtfully. “If auntie bad more it would 
only be in her way and she wouldn’t know what to do with 
it.” 

“We will look about and possibly I may be able to suggest 
a few comforts that she wouldn’t object to,” said Ethel. 

The four entered the “sittin’ room,” and as the memory of 
that night came to the girl she could not keep back the tears. 

“Everything is just as I left it,” she said, as she gave them 
chairs. “There’s my machine and work basket that uncle 
bought for me — ” 

“Glennie,” spoke Rachael, appearing in the doorway with 
her old brusqueness, “ye never tuk olf yer ma’s things.” 

“I didn’t think, auntie,” springing up. 

“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Thornton, as we shall be going 
soon,” Ethel answered. “As we intend leaving for home 
to-morrow and our child couldn’t go without first seeing you 
we brought her: then her father and I were anxious to thank 
you for all you have done for her. 1 can not find words to 
express our gratitude.” 

“I wouldn’t look fur ’em then, so ’ts better to let by gones 
go,” in tones she meant to be hospitable, “an’ as fur yer 
goin’ we’ll talk uv that along t’wards evenin’. Ef you’ll set 
here an’ talk to each other I’ll run an’ hustle up the dinner, 
an’ see to Hiram.” 

“Thank you, my dear Mrs. Thornton, but we can not think 
of troubling you. I am sure Mrs. Woodland agrees with 
me. Never mind the dinner as we would prefer talking to 
you, to eating.” 

“Jist ye never mind nuther mister. Glennie ’n her brother 
’ll want to look ’round a spell, mebbe he’d like to go up to 
yer old room, it’s jist as ye left it.” 


PASSION PAST. 


283 


“Come Percy,” she cried eagerly, “I want you to see where 
I used to sleep.” 

“Yer uncle goes up sometimes to kinder look around, but 
he hasn’t sense enough to tear things up so everything is jist 
like it was the night ye run off,” the woman called after them. 
The merry look disappeared as the girl paused on the bottom 
step, then running across the room she threw her arms about 
her aunt’s neck: 

“Auntie,” she whispered sadly “that night I thought my 
heart broke, but I was sorry I went away when I saw how 
uncle looked to-day. Mamma, can not you say something to 
comfort auntie while Pm gone?” 

“I wish I could Mrs. Thornton, but this 1 do say: surely 
God never makes a mistake and He will in time restore your 
husband’s health,” she said softly, then turning to Woodland 
with a knowing little nod of dismissal he rose at once, saying, 
with a pretended yawn: 

“I’m not so egotistical as to imagine my presence necessary 
to your enjoyment so if you two ladies will excuse me, I’ll 
walk around till the children come down.” 

“Don’t stay too long or ye might miss the hen and’ dump- 
lins’. To my mind there’s nothin’ that ekals biled hen an’ 
dumplins’.” 

Woodland threw up his hands with a tragic gesture that 
called forth from Rachael the heartiest laugh of many years. 

‘ £ Oh, why have you tempted me with the one thing I have 
never been able to resist, Mrs. Thornton ? Hen and dump- 
lings bring back a whiff of boyhood days. Yes, I’ll stay 
with Mrs. Woodland’s permission.” 

“Oh git out an’ don’t act the ijit!” motioning to the door. 
“I never seen one uv the sect but what wus all alike, Miss; 
now there’s Hiram even in his best day, wus that silly. I 
s’pose its why he lost ’is senses so easy,” apologetically. 

“I have been so sorry that your dear husband is so afflicted. 
Will you tell me about it — how it began?” With all her 
womanly tenderness and tact, Ethel felt this interview with 
the obtuse stoical woman must be labored and awkward. 


284 


PASSION PAST. 


Her first overture was followed by an hysterical outburst that 
startled her. 

“Oh, ma’am, a patienter, kind hearteder man never drawcd 
breath, nor Hiram Thornton, an’ I wus jist tother way a 
pesterin’ an’ scoldin’n, fault findin’ contineral; still, I c’d 
bear a’most any punishment, but to hev’m lose ’is senses in 
this way. To hev a poor fool al’ays raisin’ up afore yo to 
keep ye from forgittin’ sometime, it’s hard ma’am, boo! hoo! 
hoo!” 

“Oh, how this distresses me, dear Mrs. Thornton!” she 
said gently, taking the rough hand between her own soft 
palms and stroking them in a caressing way, that somehow 
went to the woman’s heart as nothing ever had done. “I 
don’t know why ye sh’d do thet way, Miss,” shyly drawing 
away her hand and beginning to rock violently in her chair. 

“I do it because I love you and must always love you for 
all you have done for my child. I do it because you are a 
dear sister in distress. I do it because I feel an unutterable 
longing to repay you in a small degree for what you have 
done for Coralie — . ” 

U I don’t never break down this w T ay: though many’s the 
day I feel like it ef I hedn’t fit agin it,” she interposed with 
a pathetic droop of the thin lips. 

“I wish I could make your burden lighter dear Mrs. Thorn- 
ton. If the time should ever come when I can help you I 
hope you will tell me.” She longed to offer financial aid but 
an insight into the woman’s nature forbade it; longed to 
replace the hideous rag carpet and stiff ugly chairs with a 
pretty brussels and soft cushioned rockers. A noise up stairs 
turned the thoughts of both into other channels for wiping 
away her tears with her gingam apron Rachael rose. 

“They’re cornin’ down now anyway it’s time to peel perta- 
ters an’ see to the dumplins an’ Hiram poor fool it’s jest like 
’im to let the fire go clean out. 

The little party enjoyed the country dinner or would have 
done so had not their thoughts so often turned to the lonely 
man wandering aimlessly about the yard. 

“He’s better by hisself, for somehow ’e don’t enjoy strang- 


PASSION PAST. 285 

ers starin’ at ’im, so he c’dn’t eat in a bit o’ comfort, nuther 
could we,” Rachael had said as they sat down. 

At two they separated, Ethel wishing to return to Ray- 
mond in time to do some necessary shopping for her daughter, 
for they expected to leave very early the following morning. 

At the last Rachael asked: “Glennie, don’t ye want to 
take yer things out’n yer room up stairs, yer books an’ 
desk?” 

“I may sometime, Auntie, when I come again. I would 
rather not do so now for Uncle’s sake.” 

“It’s jestes well, I guess, fur he’d miss ’em mighty soon; 
he’s such an ijit ’bout some things an’ ’ts likely them ’d be 
the very things he’d be a fool about. Jest take a look at ’im 
over thar an’ picter to yerself, child, what life must al’ays be 
to yer cross old aunt.” 

“Auntie,” she sobbed, “I wish I’d never left you, then I 
shouldn’t have known about my parents and brother — if I 
could have my choice now — •” 

“Child, don’t ye say it an’ don’t ye think anything about me, 
cause I desarve it all fur what I done to ye that day,” she 
cried, putting her head down on the girl’s shoulder in uncon- 
solable grief. For a little while the two clung to one an- 
other, but time was passing and the two horses were becoming 
impatient to be gone. 

4 ‘I see yer pa an’ ma hes gone to the buggy an’ left us to 
come, so let’s go.” 

44 Wait just one moment, auntie, till I say good by to uncle. 
Oh uncle! uncle! if I knew you would not forget your little 
girl it wouldn’t seem so hard to leave you now. Try to re- 
member her till she conies again, won’t you?” 

4 4 Ye’ll come agin sometime will ye?” he asked in his slow 
dull tones. “Rachael said ye would, but I didn’t think ye 
could.” 

“I will; I must come uncle. ’I’ll ask papa to bring me.” 

4 4 Who?” 

“Papa, uncle; that is he at the carriage.” 

He looked after her in a hopeless, bewildered way, as, with 


286 


PASSION PAST. 


her arm linked within her aunt’s, she hurried weeping down 
to the road. 

“Her pap!” he muttered, finding in this tit-bit food for 
the next half hour’s reflection, as he wandered around. 

“Auntie, when shall I see you and the old place again?” 

“Sometime yer pap may fetch ye. Glennie, hev ye f urguv 
yer old aunt fur that night’s work when I druv ye from the 
only home ye had?” 

“There must be no such a word between us. I have often 
thought how I must have tried your patience. Percy tells 
me they are very rich and live in a fine old mansion that be- 
longed to mamma. If you could but come and see me some- 
time.” 

“Come to see ye? What ud I do among sich folks, Glen- 
nie?” she asked with a shrill little laugh. “No, child, Hiram 
an’ me’s better at home. 

“Auntie,” hesitatingly, “I know you have money, but 
papa says if the time should come when that is gone you 
won’t refuse to let me help you? And now, I want to tell 
you something else; when I go to New York I intend to buy 
you the handsomest black silk dress! Why, it’ll fairly stand 
alone so grand it will be. You would wear it for my sake, 
wouldn’t you?” 

“Child, ” with a little catch in her breath at thought of 
this, so far beyond her wildest dreams, “it ud make me so 
fine yer uncle wouldn’t know me.” 

The girl’s merry laugh rang out, “I am afraid to tell you 
what else I’m going to send you.” 

“Ye be Glennie? jest try me and see.” 

“A fine black suit for uncle; then if mamma should want 
to add some little things, you wouldn’t care would you now?” 

“He may hev the close though ’ts likely he’ll live to be 
buried in ’em. I ain’t as nimble es I uster be an’ can’t sew 
like I did. Onct I c’d make ’im a pair o’ britches in a day es 
easy es turn my hand over afi but the buttons, I can’t no 
more.” 


PASSION PAST. 


287 


“And I’d sew on the buttons before I went to bed. Here 
we are,” for they had reached the waiting carriage and this 
period in their memory simultaneously. 


CHAPTER XL. 


Two years had passed since the events related in the last 
chapter and the morning a bright one near the close of July. 
Half past eight found Ethel alone in the breakfast room ar- 
ranging the cups and saucers and by a touch here and there 
to the already faultless table giving a more artistic effect to 
the silver and china. 

“I do think I shall have to set an earlier hour for break- 
fast for those children of mine are falling into lazy habits I 
fear,” she mused half aloud, glancing at the clock. “There, 
I believe they are coming! Oh, it is you Horace?” 

“You are too late in trying that my dear. Their lazy 
habits seem hopelessly fixed,” spoke her husband at her 
elbow. 

“Now Horace,” indignantly, “you know that Coralie is 
undeniably the most tireless worker. Positively, she never 
spends an idle moment only when she sleeps. 

“That is the disputed point, is it not — only when she 
sleeps?” the father laughingly retorted as he passed on to 
his own seat at the table where he hurriedly looked over his 
mail, placed by a servant by his plate. 

“One from the Thorntons for Coralie. Ah, Ethel! a letter 
from Aylor, so I suppose her invitation reached him,” he 
said, taking up one addressed in that young gentleman’s well 
known chirography, and running his eyes over it. 

“One from Aylor? I hadn’t noticed the mail,” with a little 
tremor that always came at mention of his name. 

‘ ‘And from the way he writes he don’t intend to miss the ball. 
I’ll read you the letter, or part of it before they come down, 


PASSION PAST. 


289 


though I fear it may give you pain,” his own voice in turn 
growing husky. 

“It is useless to ask what you mean,” sinking into her own 
chair as she spoke. “Read it Horace.” He complied at 
once. 

“Tell Coralie I do not intend to miss her ball by any means. 
I shall follow this almost immediately; her kind invitation 
hastening my return a few days. May I dear sir, recall to 
your mind the fact that my term of probation is at its close? 
For two years I have been silent; first, that she might go on 
undisturbed, with her studies; second, that her parents might 
have her to themselves, but now my footsteps are turned 
longingly towards home.” 

Woodland stole a glance at his wife’s face, which was 
partially turned from him, to see it convulsed with grief and 
dismay. 

“Ethel,” he said gently, “I don’t think we have any cause 
for fear; but even should we not have, the time must soon 
come when we shall have to remember that we were once 
young. We must expect some day to share Coralie ’s love 
with another and Aylor is a noble, manly fellow. He aided 
in her restoration to us and it is but right that his feelings 
should be considered.” 

“I can not bear it, she is nothing but a child, only eighteen 
and to think of such a thing! Why Horace, Coralie seems 
scarcely a day older than she did two years ago, not so old 
even, since the lines traced by those few unhappy months 
have been effaced, and then Horace, this visit to New Hamp- 
shire to which she looks forward so eagerly.” 

“As for her age Ethel, how old were you when you mar- 
ried me?” he asked quizzically. “As for her visit to tho 
Thorntons, the sly dog forestalls us there by asking to accom- 
pany her in a lot of lover-like rhapsodies about visiting the 
spot where he met her first. ” 

“I shall refuse to be parted from her so soon, just as I am 
beginning to realize the happiness of possessing a daughter. 
Rut why do I go half way to meet this fancied trouble, when 


290 


PASSION PAST. 


I know that Coralie ’s love for me is too deep and strong for 
any other to come between us?” 

“The love of the child may be deep and strong as you say, 
Ethel; yet, after all it scarcely deserves the name in compar- 
ison for it is more like a feeling of gratitude for the comforts 
of life and the devotion of parents. The love of a young 
girl is far more than this.” 

“Horace!” she cried out, shocked and pained at this view 
of filial alfection, so adverse to her motherly heart. “The 
philosophy of love seems to be a matter of profound consid- 
eration with you.” 

“Ever since I first knew you my dearest,” he replied gal- 
lantly, but Ethel was too agitated to listen to compliments. 
“It is too hard after those thirteen long, miserable, lonely, 
years,” she sobbed crossing over to a window. 

“It is always hard for parents to remember their own feel- 
ings when young at the time for giving up their own children; 
but Ethel we should not be giving Coralie up for Aylor’s 
interests are here and he would not take her from us. There 
is more than enough room for all here and while Percy is 
away at college — . ” 

“He surely possesses a strong advocate in you, and you 
seem to have arranged everything between you. I do believe 
you will be disappointed if Coralie fails to fall in love with 
Aylor. ” He smiled at her petulance knowing how torn and 
sore was her motherly heart in this the hardest hour in a 
mother’s life. 

“Hardly disappointed,” he rejoined, “and really my dear, 
I don’t believe she has given a thought to love: though the 
feeling of gratitude she has for him may turn into that when 
she sees him. ” 

“A mother’s eyes may have seen more than yours Horace, 
and it is this that disturbs me now. This desire for white 
violets for her reception dress may have no meaning to a 
father, but a mother’s eyes are keener.” 

He looked at her in surprise. “I certainly fail Ethel to 
catch any meaning from such a trifle. Violets are beautiful 
and wonderfully becoming to our modest shy little girl, so 


PASSION PAST. 


291 


what is there in her preference beyond a little youthful van- 
ity ?” 

U I could tell you a little secret or two perhaps were X so 
minded. She has been jealously guarding a little dried up 
violet or two ever since she has been at home, and when I 
questioned her she colored and evaded my question by telling 
me it was from the Thornton farm. ” 

“And womanlike, you have woven a great romance out of 
a little bit of childish sentiment,” he said laughing. “ Ethel, 
here comes the mad-caps, don’t let them suspect,” he im- 
plored, taking refuge behind a paper, while Ethel again hid 
her face in the curtains. 

“The “mad-caps” came waltzing into the room arm in 
arm. The boy at once saw his mother’s form at the window 
and crossing over threw his arm about her neck with his 
usual morning caress, drawing her toward the table. 

“It is her fault we’re so late. I’ve been waiting ever so 
long — ” he began. 

“Oh coward and sneak thy name is, Percy!” she cried in 
withering scorn from her perch upon her father’s knee, 
where, after a bear like hug, she had seated herself. 

“Don’t call your brother names,” her mother said with a 
comic attempt at motherly discipline. It was easy to see 
how lax were the reins of parental control in the Woodland 
household. “To look at your fresh young face this morning 
one would think you design arraying yourself against old 
Father Time himself, but I warn you, he is a formidable ad- 
versary.” But the girl shook her head, merrily answering: 

“I challenge him to mortal combat, mamma, and match 
youth and beauty against his years and prowess. 1 defy 
him to wrinkle my face and turn my hair white. Oh, 
papa! here is a letter from Auntie. Why didn’t you tell 
me?” 

“Read it, dear, before you eat your breakfast.” And she 
was soon laboriously desciphering the misspelt, badly written 
missive, which, fortunately, was brief. 

“deer glenny,” it said, “I set down to drope ye a few lines 
to let ye no how me an’ yer uncle is. he looks that gran’ in 


292 


PASSION PAST. 


his nu close fur he won’t ware another thing no more but 
that an’ he jest sets in his cooshined chare an’ seems to be 
lookin’ fur ye all the time. I hope ye’ll cum rite soom fer 
any budy kin see he gits weeker an’ weeker es day toilers 
nite an’ nite toilers day. Yer ant.” The letter ended, 
Coralie took her seat with a little tremor about the pretty 
mouth : 

“I may soon go, may I not, papa?” 

“In two or three week now, I think, daughter. I don’t 
think Uncle Thornton will last much longer; but let us 
change the subject to something less gloomy. Sorrowful 
thoughts while eating are bad digesters. Tell me about the 
new waltz. ” 

“Monsieur Lefils says it’s ‘magnifique.’ It’s just like a 
dream, and I’ll outshine Terpsichore herself.” 

“How enthusiastic you are over it. Some young ladies 
don’t like the waltz, and 1 half fancied my girl would place 
herself in the same category. What a full-fledged young 
lady you are becoming, dear. ” 

“But you haven’t told me why you object to waltzing, 
papa. I never heard you do so before,” she said, looking 
puzzled, at the same time purloining a peach and lump of 
sugar, which she slipped into her pocket. 

“Ask your mother, child. She will tell you some time,” 
he said evasively, 

“Tell me now, mamma,” she persisted, turning to that 
lady. “Papa’s theory is that cheerful conversation is a good 
digester, and to my mind there’s nothing more cheerful than 
a waltz. Tell me. ” 

“If I feel any hesitation, dear, it springs from a wish to 
analyze and arrange my views in my own mind before at- 
tempting to impart them to my children,” she said. “You, 
Coralie, are a novice in the popular usages of society and 
thus far have had no opportunities whatever of learning the 
objectionabble features of this pastime. The wish to keep 
you my little girl as long as possible has prevented me from 
discussing those subjects, the pernicious effects of which a 
mother should present alike to her boys and girls, though 


PASSION PAST. 


293 

from a false sense of delicacy she sometimes shrinks from 
pointing out to her boys, thereby allowing them to imbibe 
erroneous ideas of what should constitute good society. It 
requires tact and delicacy, Coralie, to successfully tide over 
the rules of polite society. Should you prefer waltzing with 
Percy to any other?” 

“There’s Billie Doddridge and Bobbie Scuyler and ” 

she said coloring suddenly. 

“Who are all boys in their teens as you are Coralie. You 
will find that when young people of both sexes meet for en- 
joyment and pleasure those rules do not allow such a narrow 
discrimination in the selection of partners. 1 fear the male 
votaries of society may not always be willing to see you give 
your best dances to Billie and Bobbie. This reception is for 
the purpose of presenting you to society and you will be 
expected to dance a few times at least, and now comes the 
objectionable figure of waltzing to which your father alludes. 
Is there not something offensive in the thought of being held 
in the embrace of six or eight of the young men who will be 
here?” 

“Oh mamma,” turning scarlet, “why did you consent to a 
dance ? I shall always hate the waltz and I never intend to 
dance it. ” 

“And gain the ignoble name of “crank,” Coralie?” inter- 
rupted her father. “Such are the very few called who dare 
to array themselves against the multitude. ” 

“Where then is the medium between two such extremes?” 
the girl asked in disgust. 

“No medium can be designated until pure young girlhood 
is permitted to follow its own instincts, and the objections 
imposed upon them,” her mother rejoined. 

“I say mamma,” said Percy, “aren’t these rather hard 
lines on us boys?” 

“They may seem so to those reared as you have been; but 
now a word for the other class. While public opinion, a 
cloak under which vice and crime hide themselves, would 
applaud your father for killing the man who would clasp his 
arms about your sister in the privacy of her parlor, the bad 


294 


PASSION PAST. 


man I mean, it could not see any impropriety in it while glid- 
ing through the mazes of the waltz. ” 

“Then I can not understand how you could expose me to 
such indignities, mamma, for if public opinion sees no im- 
propriety, I do,” and tears of shame filled her eyes. 

“Remember, dear, this reception is hardly like a ball. 
Those who desire to do so may dance; then there is another 
point to be considered. I think it best for you to see the dif- 
ferent phases of social life, then choose as your maidenly in- 
stincts direct. Your father and I will be pleased if you 
choose to ignore the waltz unless your partner should be a 
near friend.” 

“Ethel, another cup, please. I know your own fair hands 
made this coffee, and I feel tempted to raise cook’s wages at 
once for these delicious muffins.” Woodland suddenly inter- 
rupted, and the remainder of the meal was eaten in silence, 
each pitying the girl’s embarrassment. 

A little later on Ethel said as she drew her daughter to her 
breast: “My dear, you are now entering upon a new era — an 
untried life at whose portal you lay down your happy, care- 
less girlhood with no defence but your own innocence and 
your parent’s teaching. In this new life there are those who 
would teach those lessons less kindly than I may, though the 
breakfast table is hardly the proper place; but the subject 
came up and I could neither ignore nor evade it.” 

“I think, mamma, I shall learn to hate society as yuu have 
described it this morning,” she replied in a tone of disgust. 
“1 hate falsehood and deceit of any kind, and how hollow 
and false and base it must be.” 

“There is a certain element that is all yousa}^,” her mother 
said, mentally admiring the strong characteristics stamped 
upon the pretty animated countenance. “Emerson says ‘So- 
ciety is frivolous and shreds its days into scraps, its conver- 
sation into ceremonies. ’ So much for one extreme. But 1 
think, dear, that it is losing sight of the higher purposes' of 
society, which brings out so many rare anomalies, for with 
all its faults and foibles it seems almost necessary to the ad- 
vancement of the one wishing for power and influence in the 


PASSION PAST. 


295 


public arena. It is human nature, Coralie, to yearn for so- 
cial intercourse with its kind, and with the proper safeguard 
— a strong character — it possesses more advantages than dis- 
advantages. As our decorators no doubt have come, I will 
leave the question for another day, but I wish to talk this 
oyer with you. Percy, ” motioning to her son, “come with 
me to see about those decorations. There is so much to do 
I really don’t know where to begin. Will you come too?” 

“As soon as I have fed my birds, mamma. I know the 
poor dears are starving. ” 


CHAPTER XLI. 


4 Coralie!” The girl paused for a moment in the doorway, 
then came back to her father’s side. 

“Sit down here a moment dear. I have something to tell 
you,” he said in a serious tone that caused a little flutter 
about her heart, and her cheeks flushed scarlet when he oon- 
tinued: 

“I received a letter from Ay lor this morning.” 

“He is in Florida so his mother says, and he intends com- 
ing home soon. What does he say papa? 1 suppose our in- 
vitation reached him, is why he writes?” she managed to 
answer. 

“Yes he received it and writes to say he will come in time 
for your ball — and daughter, he says something more. I was 
tempted to give the letter to you but on second thought I 
think I shall let you guess what he says,” looking at her 
quizzically. 

“Why shouldn’t I see it papa if it is in reply to ours? 
After all I don’t suppose it contains anything of grave import- 
ance. If that is all papa, I think I’ll go and feed Moody and 
Sankey,” trying to speak indifferently and moving away. 
“Oh yes,” as if obeying an after thought, “you didn’t say 
papa when he is coming — the day I mean. ” 

“To-day or to-night I suppose as he said he would follow 
the letter immediately.” 

“Then I don’t know why he need write at all,” looking from 
her father to the chair into which she finally sank with a little 
sheepish look. 

“I’-ll 'tell you why, it was to prepare me beforehand for a 


PASSION PAST. 


297 


request he is going to make on his return. I wonder if you 
have any idea what it is?” 

“Why papa how could 1 have? How absurd you are! 
Really papa I think my poor little birds are starving! may I 
go now?” 

Woodland smiled, “in a moment,” he said. “I do not 
think the birds will suffer for a little while. I wish to speak 
of your visit to the Thorntons, Walworth asks for permission 
to accompany you — alone I mean.” 

“Alone? Ridiculous! What an idiot he must be to mention 
such a thing!” she cried out with burning cheeks. “Indeed 
papa I must attend to Moody and Sankey,” and the next 
moment he was sitting alone listening to her flying footsteps 
as she ran up stairs to her own room. 

“And only this morning I told myself no thought of this 
had ever entered the child’s mind. Oh well, if they wish it 
and Ethel consents, poor little woman, I suppose she must in 
time, I shall not object,” and having thus pleasantly settled 
the matter for our young people he went to his own room to 
write his letters in reply to those received in the morning 
mail. 

Meanwhile Coralie had locked herself within her own room. 

“To think Sankey, he would write such things to papa!” 
she whispered confidentially into the ear of that singer while 
she divided the peach and lump of sugar, fastening one half 
into the wires of each songster’s cage. 

4 ‘He is coming to-day ! He is coming to-day !’ ’ warbled forth 
the bird with his head saucily turned on one side. 

“Shame on you Sankey! You know I meant it as a secret 
between you and me. Moody wouldn t have betrayed me in 
such a way, would you Moody?” 

“He is coming to-day! He is coming to-day!” Sankey re- 
peated, and this time the very air about her seemed to be 
tilled with joyous refrain. 

With her father’s communication had suddenly come the 
flash which revealed to Coralie that Aylor was no ordinary 
acquaintance which time might cause her to forget. She 
knew that his image had become stamped upon her heart 


298 


PASSION PAST. 


never to be effaced. A crisis had come into her life bringing 
with it a shy feeling of joy, awe and fright. 

“I’d die though, rather than he should know, or papa 
either,” she told herself as she buried her burning face in her 
palms that even Moody or Sankey should not read the hap- 
piness in it. 

“I’ve read of love in all its phases. Surely this is not that 
over which novelists rave! Love! Why since my earliest rec- 
ollection I have loved some one, first poor uncle; then my 
parents and brother, why, I think I love everybody, yet how 
different is this strange new feeling. Well, I’m resolved that 
he shall never find it out. Go to Uncle Hiram’s with me 
indeed! Well!” 

It was not Coralie’s nature to be serious long, and at the 
arrival of this resolution her eyes fell upon the pretty dress 
sent home the night before and which lay a lovely shining 
heap upon the bed. 

“It was nice and sweet in mamma to let me have my way 
about the train,” surveying with vanity and pride that elab- 
orate untried appendage. “I’m getting too tall and old to 
show my ankles so — then, he would think me as much of a 
child as I was two years ago. Go to uncle’s with me! Some- 
how I can not forget that ridiculous idea of his.” 

The night arrived for the party to which she had looked 
forward to long, and the great mansion at Woodlawn was a 
blaze of light from basement to attic. Every available spot 
was decorated with beautiful plants, trailing foliage and 
flowers: and in the illuminated grounds the refreshing spray 
from pretty fountains played fantastically upon the lights and 
shadows of the trees. 

No happier girl lived in New York than the pretty young 
mistress, of this fine old house, as she stood surveying herself 
before the mirror in her room, where the finishing touches 
are being given by the deft finger of her little maid, who 
with other new dignities befitting her advanced age had been 
assigned her. 

She suddenly saw the reflection of her mother and brother 
confronting her and turned as Percy cried out: 


PASSION PAST. 


299 


“Won’t it be no end of fun mamma to watch sis manage 
her first train ? I’ll bet a half dozen pairs of Suedes against 
a fiver that Billie puts his foot in it the first round.” 

“Do leave off such slang Percy.” 

“I think as much mamma, I think sir, I can manage the 
train with more ease than Bessie Walworth will manage to 
hide her ankles.” 

“Children don’t quarrel, you distress me. We only came a 
moment dear to see how everything looks. It is lovely. I 
shall want you in a half hour Coralie, don’t be longer than 
that. ” When they went out the little maid stepped back and 
clasped her hands in ecstacy. 

“Do I really look nice Izzie? Nicer, I mean, than ever 
before?” 

4 1 should smile, Miss Coralie! There it is again: but you 
look so stunning Miss, it slipped out before I thought.” 

A happy little laugh rang out as she took up her fan. She 
could bear much, in the way of girlish slang from Izzie to- 
night. 

“Don’t I appear a trifle too red? Why, my cheeks are like 
a dairy maid’s. Just a wee bit of powder, Izzie.” 

“Powder, Miss?” You surely would’t spoil the prettiest 
roses that ever was by monkeying with powder!” 

“I fear you are incorrigible to-night, Izzie. I shall have 
to speak to mamma,” shaking a reproving finger at her. 

If Coralie was slightly defective, morally and spiritually, 
nothing seemed lacking in the external appearance, as she 
descended the back stairway, that she might avoid a possible 
encounter with an early guest, into a small parlor where she 
saw standing — Ay lor Walworth. 

The young man thought she made the fairest picture he 
had ever looked upon with her sparkling brown eyes, and 
lovely dimpled face. 

She stood for a moment transfixed with embarrassment, 
then a scarlet blush swept over her cheeks. He came eagerly 
forward, then paused, and a look of bewilderment came into 
his eyes. 

“Is it indeed you, little girl? Such a transformation for a 


300 


PASSION PAST. 


moment confused me. I mistook you for some grand lady.” 

“Am I not?” she asked, shyly accepting his proffered 
hand. U 1 had no idea of finding you here, Mr. Walworth. 
Why do you look at me so? Am I such a fright? 

“Fright?” he repeated in a pained voice. “What have 
they been doing to you since yesterday, you poor little girl? 
When 1 saw you last evening I saw a merry little maiden in 
short dress and flowing hair; tonight that worthy dame Art 
by the exercise of her marvelous wand, has transformed you 
into a wonderful creation not half so pleasing. How has she 
managed to spoil you so Coralie?” 

“I certainly like that,” she replied, tossing her head dis- 
dainfully. “But go on Mr. Walworth, don’t mind my feel- 
ings. How has that much maligned lady managed it you 
ask? Well sir, she has used for this especial creation, lace, 
silk, chiffon and flowers, and as you say the effect is wonder- 
ful.” 

“Oh vanity, vanity, thy name is Coralie Woodland!” he 
aswered, his features relaxing under her mischievious eyes, 
“I wonder if she could do me up like that?” 

“I don’t see anything to hinder,” her merry eyes dancing 
over his stalwart form drawn up to its full height. 

‘ ‘I think my six feet in length and my hundred and sixty 
avoirdupois would hinder. ” 

“You havn’t told me yet how it is I find you here, Mr. 
Walworth,” anxious to turn his quizzical gaze from herself. 

“One -of my boyish tricks, springing over the fence be- 
tween our houses. The Mater and Bess will be over soon. 
I don’t mean in that way; but child, I wanted to get one look 
at you before they exhibited you to all those cads. Tell me 
little girl why you wear those violets to-night?” 

“Because they are favorite flowers and very pretty,” she 
jerked out with a vivid blush. 

“There! no more wicked fibs, Coralie!” he cried imprison- 
ing her pretty dimpled hand within his own, which she tried 
in vain to extricate. 

“For shame, Mr. Walworth!” turning her rosy face away 
from him. “Do you know that I have spent fully fifteen 


PASSION PAST. 


301 


minutes of the most valuable time of my life here with 
you, and mamma is waiting for me? Do let me go. What 
will she say?” 

“That fifteen minutes more or less make little difference 
in a whole lifetime spent in the same way, ” said the inflexible 
dolt looking unutterably content in spite of the discouraging 
outlook. “Coralie,” he went on irrelevantly, “I want to see 
this j ust one moment, ” making a sudden dive at the pretty 
ivory tablet suspended from her belt. Ah, yes! just as I 
thought! Billie and Bobbie and even Percy, two each!” 

“Indeed, I don’t intend to waltz to-night except with those, 
and possibly not at all, ” she said hastily, trying to regain 
possession of the tablet, but failing until after he had erased 
one of each and written his own name in their place. “Now 
it is as it should be,” he said. 

“Bobbie and Billie are the best boys in the world,” she re- 
plied indignantly. 

“That is just it, too good. I strongly object to your glar- 
ing discrimination; and besides, I don’t care that you should 
dance with the best boys only. Don’t be so refractory child. 
For two years I have been a starving, thirsty wanderer. 
Coralie!” he said suddenly, checking himself, “forgive me for 
saying these things. If you do, give me one of these violets 
in your dress. Will you?” 

“Why, aren’t you ashamed, Mr. Walworth?” 

“Ready to sink through the floor this minute will you?” 

“Oh, well, there’s the old thing! take it!” and the next 
moment he was standing alone in the room with the tiny, fra- 
grant blossom in his hand. 

“By Jove, the same flowers she gave me two years ago!” 
rapturously kissing the little pile of dust, then carefully 
pinning the fresh one in his button-hole. 

“What a change two- years have made in her, yet in many 
things the same; and how naturally she fills the niche belong- 
ing to her! Just the same ingenuous, original little lady that 
I met at the Thornton’s, in spite of the veneering process 
from which I tried to dissuade her father.” 

Our little heroine in the meantime had taken her place 


302 


PASSION PAST. 


beside her mother in the reception room and the feeling of 
exultation in her heart was not altogether un mixed with pain. 

“I think I have convinced him of his mistake in fancying I 
cared anything about him,” she whispered to herself. “He’ll 
be so crushed that I don’t suppose he’ll ever think of the 
waltz.” And a little sigh escaped her, reaching in some 
occult manner that young gentleman, who was making his 
way through the gathering crowd. The same occult pow r er 
seemed to draw the wistful brown eyes in the same direction. 
She turned them quickly to a black-eyed, gypsy-looking 
maiden at her side, saying: 

“I don’t think I’ll waltz once to-night, will you, Bess?” 

“Of course not, for mamma wouldn’t begin to let me. She 
wouldn't have let me come, even, had it been anywhere else. 
I do wish I was eighteen, Cora; but I’m only sixteen, and 
not out you know; fudge!” she said, regretfully, as she met 
Percy’s eyes. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


“Sixteen!” her thoughts wandered back to the time when 
she was sixteen and for full sixty seconds she was lost to 
everything around her; lost to the fact that her young friend 
and brother had in some mysterious manner left her side and 
gone somewhere to themselves; even lost to the fact that 
Ay lor was clasping her mother’s hand until she heard his 
name spoken. 

“It does us good my dear boy to have you with us again, 
and for your mother’s sake I hope you will settle down and 
try to make amends for the past two years by making her as 
happy as I am with my children.” 

“The time may come for this same spirit of restlessness to 
seize Percy,” she heard him answer in a teasing voice. 

“I hope not Aylor, but, if it were to happen so, I still have 
a daughter,” looking proudly at the young girl near her, who, 
in spite of the elaborate train, the insignia that marks the 
line between the child and the woman, seemed a child still. 

“How much pleasure do you expect to find at this feast of 
reason and flow of soul, Coralie?” he asked smiling down on 
her. 

“I am sure you are laughing, which is certainly very rude; 
but then, to those whose constant diet has been of the highest 
order of intellectual food, such garbage as “small talk” must 
indeed seem meagre.” 

“Do you know what I shall exact for that speech in addi- 
tion to those three waltzes? — ” 

“Oh, I’m not going to waltz at all,” she interrupted 
quickly. 


304 


PASSION PAST. 


“Don’t think to escape me so easily but prepare yourself at 
once for a sacrifice to appease my just anger.” 

“What a Shylock you are, Mr. Walworth; but I must help 
mamma to look after our guests. You are making me neg- 
lect them shamefully. Come with me to find mamma. I 
didn’t notice when she left us.” 

“I’ll take you, but if you ignore the waltzes I’ll call Bob- 
bie and Billie both out sure, three waltzes and two dances, 
mind. I never go beyond reasonable limits. ” 

A merry ripple of laughter followed this, then she said: 

“Indeed, Mr. Walworth, I have grave reasons for disliking 
the waltz.” 

“Some other time I’ll listen to the grave reasons; but to- 
night I don’t think there is anything I shall enjoy so much.” 

After the last dance that night he drew her outside by a 
pretty cupid from the point of whose tiny arrow issued a 
silvery spray; then he said to her: 

“Coralie, will you take a drive with me to-morrow morn- 
ing? Say yes, dear, for I wish to tell you something. Will 
you go, Coralie? ’Tis a little thing to grant, and you know 
you once told me you would give me half of your kingdom.” 

“Nothing less than the whole pound of flesh will satisfy 
you.” 

“About one hundred and twenty-five pounds little girl,” 
surveying with a mathematical eye her graceful figure. 
“Will you promise me the drive?” 

“How you do persist, Mr. Walworth. I suppose I can 
ask mamma, though I am sure she will not let me go 
driving alone with any gentleman. Now, if Bess and Percy 
were to go; but then, I was thinking of something if they 
should not go.” 

“Why should we want Bess and Percy? Are you afraid to 
trust yourself with me? But what is the something in case 
they don’t go?” 

“Papa has given me the sweetest pony and the dearest little 
cart, just room enough for two — and I was thinking — .” 

“I was thinking you transparent atom of humanity!” he 
repeated laughing so boisterously that a frog in the tree above 


PASSION PAST. 


305 


them croaked in disapproval. “There child, forgive me. 
W e can settle about the drive in the morning. I’ll come over 
early and ask the little mother. May I?” 

U I see Percy and Bess over yonder Mr. Walworth. Please 
excuse me. I’m going to them.” 

“Never mind my little lady!” looking ruefully after the 
flying figure, “I’ll see that you don’t slip away from me 
to-morrow.” 

* * * * * 

“Well!” said Woodland as his daughter appeared in the 
breakfast room the following morning, “We hardly dared 
hope for your presence at our board this morning after such 
a night of dissipation. How is it?” 

“From a secret conference held right under the nose of 
Cupid out there that I witnessed last night, and certain mys- 
terious movements of the stable boy this morning, I judge 
that it would take more than one night’s dissipation to keep 
Sis in bed later than this,” said her brother. 

“I shouldn’t say a word if I were you. What were you 
doing at the same time? There sir, I defy you! You know 
I’ll not spare you if you dare to say another word.” 

“Hush, hush, children, don’t quarrel so!” interposed the 
bewildered mother. “What can you mean?” 

4 I mean that poor brother is seriously threatened with 
some sort of heart affection, mamma, and I think he needs 
immediate treatment,” the girl cried out merrily, in turn en- 
joying the bright blush covering the boyish face opposite as 
he glanced at his father; for although the boy of eighteen 
can pour into the sympathetic ears of his mother the story of 
his secret hopes, he can hardly face a father’s irony evoked 
by his love affairs. 

“Oh, Percy! and such a strong, healthy looking boy? I 
had no idea of there being anything wrong with your heart, 
dear. The doctor should examine it at once. It surely can 
not be organic.” 

“I do think, mamma,” following up her vantage ground, 
though almost choking with laughter, 4 ‘that Bess may be 
trusted to diagnose brother’s peculiar type of heart disease.” 


306 


PASSION PAST. 


“Can this be possible? How have I been so blind?” for the 
moment nearly overcome, as for the first time the conviction 
was being forced upon her that possibly her boy was becom- 
ing emancipated from maternal control. “Percy,” she said, 
rising from the table, “come here and let me see how tall you 
really are: Why, Horace, another inch will take him above 
you.” 

“Just five, nine and a half, mamma! I measured yesterday 
on my eighteenth birthday; and here give me your hand, 
mamma. Now, pass it over that upper lip will you? and to 
think I was shaved yesterday!” 

“Yes, dear; I can feel it. Why, it really scratches my 
hand a wee bit,” she said quite proudly. “Ah! is it you, 
Aylor? Good morning!” 

“Good morning, young man!” called out Woodland, cor- 
dially extending his hand. “Come and have a cup of Ethel’s 
incomparable coffee.” 

“Please don’t tempt me. I ran away from home this min 
ute to escape the mater’s third. Good morning, Coralie! 
How are you after last night? Ready for another, eh? 
Percy a certain young lady not to be named here, asked me 
* to give you this; said something about a promise, and that 
yon were expecting it and would know,” handing to that 
young gentleman a tiny white envelope, which hurried him 
from the room with red cheeks, but he came back long 
enough to say, rather exultantly: 

“Sis, here comes Jim with your horse and cart. May I go 
driving with you? You may not be able to manage Prince 
all alone. ” 

“As if I couldn’t manage any pony that ever lived!” she 
replied, loftily, her own face becoming very rosy as she 
avoided her father’s eyes. 

“Still, one never knows how refractory a pony may sud- 
denly become, ” demurred Aylor. “If I were your mother 
I should hesitate before allowing you to go driving a strange 
pony through the noisy streets. If she would only permit 
me I know it would be safer. May I, Mrs. Woodland?” 

*‘Well, well!” cried the little woman, sinking back into her 


PASSION PAST. 


307 


chair in a helpless way. 4 4 What a leap those two children 
have made within the past twenty- four hours! Percy in his 
room reading a billet doux from a young lady and his sister 
wishing to take a drive without a chaperone with a gentle- 
man!” 

“But there are hundreds of people about, dear Mrs. Wood- 
land, so why should a chaperone be necessary, as if you fear 
to trust Coralie to her old friend? Don’t you think we may 
manage the pony without the aid of such a person, Coralie?” 

“Possibly we may, for I claim to be a clever whip if you 
should fail; but if you object mammal’ll not go atall,” she 
replied diplomatically. 

“There, child, go and enjoy your drive. Go to the 
park and return. Run and get your hat and gloves. Prince 
is impatient to be gone. ” 

The girl was glad to make her escape from the room, so 
flew to do her mother’s bidding. 

A few minutes later the mother stood on the front steps 
looking afiter the young people as they drove merrily away 
in the direction of Van Cortlandt park. She gave a gentle 
little sigh as she turned to go in the house. The sigh met 
with a responsive one from the ample bosom of Wilson, who 
had come for orders for the day. 

4 ‘It’s plain to be seen that the blessed child’s name won’t be 
Woodland very much longer, and what a pretty pair they 
make to be sure!” 

“What a ridiculous idea, Wilson! He is like our own son. 
I will not believe anything so absurd.” 

“All mothers feel that way ma’am, but other folks can see 
as plain as anything and you’d better get used to the idea if 
it does seem absurd,” and with another doleful sigh she turn- 
ed her mind to pastry, meats and sauces, then started kitch- 
enward, leaving the mother to ponder the above truisms in 
the solitude of her own chamber. 

Almost as unconscious of it as of the sighs which followed 
after her, a great mysterious change was taking place in 
Coralie’s heart. The touch as light as a gossamer’s wing 
which, two years before had sounded its gentle vibrations 


308 


PASSION PAST. 


upon her heart strings, had with the passing months been 
slowly evolving an indefinable something, the name of which 
she would hardly acknowledge to herself , * even in the dark 
hours of night, with her blushing face buried in her pillow. 

She had lain awake for several hours the night before, bat- 
tling with those strange, new sensations, and in spite of a 
sort of bravado that comes with the dawn, she was unable to 
meet the eyes of her lover. Lover? and had it really come to 
that to one who two years before had never seen a pair of 
lovers ? 

They had proceeded in almost utter silence for a mile or 
two, the docile Prince hardly feeling the reins so lightly held 
in the hands of his pretty mistress. 

“While I feel sure that Prince is a prince of ponies, don’t 
you think he is a little bit poky, Coralie?” Aylor asked, de- 
termined to bear the silence no longer. 

Poky! the quintessence of everything base and detestable 
in the English language; a term so low and common that it 
could be given the scraggiest, skinniest specimen of horse- 
flesh! 

The brown eyes flashed as they turned upon him. “Now 
sir, if you do not immediately retract that insult to Prince he 
shall not take you another foot. Take it back, I say, or I 
intend to dump you out right here!” 

“Relentless fate, to make one a puppet in little hands so 
cruel! Prince! Prince! on my knees I retract rather than be 
dumped into the street. I’ve fulfilled the conditions and am 
willing to concede Prince every virtue. Am I forgiven?” 

“See that you never offend again,” but half mollified. “I 
don’t believe you meant a word of it though,” a crimson tide 
sweeping over her face, as she encountered a dangerous look 
in his eyes. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


“Coralie, you have hardly glanced at me since we started. 
I am not a patient man and I warn you there is a limit to my 
forbearance. ” 

“I’m sure I havn’t the faintest idea of your meaning,” she 
said faintly. “If I have unconsciously done anything I sup- 
pose Prince’s superior attractions may account for it. ” 

“I don’t want to spend this morning rehearsing your pony’s 
virtues- Coralie. Look into my eyes and promise me you and 
I shall never quarrel again. I didn’t plan this drive for the 
purpose of quarreling, but to talk over old times — of yourself 
for the past two years. ” 

“The quarreling is vastly better than raking over dead 
ashes. ” 

“Dead ashes in the past of an eighteen-year-old girl!” he 
said laughing. “You looked eighty at least when you said 
that. Child, there’s nothing in the world so full of interest 
to me as your past, present — and future.” 

She was touched, softened by the tenderness in his voice. 
“I’m sure I don’t wish to quarrel with you,” she said more 
gently. 

“You know Coralie, though I have been so closely connected 
with the past two years of your life I really know very little 
about you, your life at the Thornton’s, how you acquired the 
education you possessed. 1 have never spent more than three 
or four hours with you remember.” 

“What an eventful life mine has been Mr. Walworth! 
Where am I to begin ? at so remote a period as my first spell- 
ing book?” 


310 


passion past. 


“Yes, with the first spelling book,” longing to kiss away the 
tears gathering on the dark lashes. 

“I suppose it was not different from yours though the a b 
c’s may have been mastered under less pleasant auspices than 
at a mother’s knee. When scarcely beyond them I was sent 
to the country school for a few months each year until I was 
twelve. After that Aunt Rachael kept me at home to help 
her. Being thus denied all chances for education, I devised a 
method of my own, or rather availed myself of one already 
devised. Mrs. Kinne took an interest in me and directed me 
to the C. L. S. C., a school planned for such as I, and at that 
time scarcely beyond its infancy.” 

“I know of it and suppose to one of so few resources such 
a mine of learning must have seemed inexhaustible,” her 
listener observed. 

“No queen on her throne was happier than I in my little 
kingdom — my attic room under the sloping roof, with my 
first year’s supply of books. I was especially fond of his- 
tory. Mathematics was beyond me. Mythological studies 
possessed the greatest charm, and to-day, there is a fascina- 
tion about it unequalled by any other study. For hours I can 
sit and pore over the wonderful stories of Troy, PHam, 
Hector, Achilles, of Aeneas, Helen and hundreds of others 
about whom there is such a delightful sense of uncertainty. 
Why, when I was at uncle’s I used to take nightly walks with 
those grand old heathen deities, for you know my days were 
spent in cooking, sewing and ironing—” 

“What an old cat that woman was!” Ay lor again inter- 
posed. 

“Poor auntie!” I was fortunate after all in falling into such 
good hands. What if I had been left somewhere to starve? 
But Mr. Walworth I am sure you are getting tired of the 
sound of my voice, and we are leaving poor Prince to follow 
his own head. See here, will you? we are almost to the park — .” 

“Suppose, Coralie, we drive under the trees and rest 
a while fn the shade. Pm sure your pony wishes it, too, and 
I do not intend for him to be overtaxed. Shall we?” 


PASSION PAST. 


311 


“It certainly looks inviting. If we had but brought a 
lunch to eat under the tree.” 

“I’d far rather hear you talk than see you eat. Eating is 
coarse and vulgar, and few talk so cleverly as you, so please 
continue. ” 

“What a fib! I feel as if I ought to talk until we reach 
home, to punish you.” 

•‘Go on!” he commanded, settling back lazily in the cart. 
“Begin where you left off, with those old heathens.” 

“I’m sure I had passed them. But what a life it was! 
Uncle and aunt snoring down stairs and I in my attic, my 
little table before me spread with its feast of 

‘Science and Art’s rich store, 

History’s bright page and Poesy’s wild ray; 

Religion purifying and sweetening all .’ 

Then semetimes I’d go wandering alone on the desolate 
banks of the Campagna, or stand gazing down into the water 
of the crater-formed lakes, or be listening to the pathetic 
songs of the lonely shepherds watching their flocks.” 

‘ ‘And the result is a strong-minded young woman of liter- 
ary proclivities. What have you been doing since you came 
home ? I could never hear a word unless the mater or Bess 
would occasionally mention you.” 

“I haven’t studied very much. Papa discovered me to be 
an average young lady in history and literature. Mathe- 
matics were given up in despair, languages also. Therefore 
mamma insisted on a course of painting, music, drawing and 
dancing.” 

“Yet you refused last night to air the last for my 
pleasure. ” 

A suggestive little shrug was her answer. 

“After all Coralie, everything ended far better than we 
hoped for. I suppose the Thorntons still live on their little 
farm? You hear from them of course?” 

“Yes,” coloring suddenly as the thought of her intended 
visit came into her mind. “I’m going to turn the pony, Mr. 
Walworth. It’s time we were on our way home. Mamma 
will feel uneasy.” 


PASSION PAST. 


812 


“So soon? I haven’t heard anything yet. 1 wished par- 
ticularly to hear of the Maitlands. I merely heard they were 
married about two months after I went away. Tell me about 
them.” 

“We exchange letters occasionally, sometimes mamma; 
then Percy or I write. I expect to go there on a visit in a 
few weeks. Mrs. Maitland begs me to come. She is just 
the grandest woman. 1 think.” 

“I suppose she is since the fiery elements of her nature 
have been made subservient to her higher principles. How 
was it Coralie, that she surrendered at last to the rector?” 

“In the nicest way. I’ll tell you if you promise not to 
speak of it. ” 

“What do you take me for?” 

The young girl was unconsciously toying with the lapel of 
his coat, yet the strongly tempted young man*s arm retained 
its position upon the back of the seat, instead of obeying the 
impulse natural to his youth and sex, for Aylor was one who 
kept his grosser passions in check, so he clid not clamber 
over the back of the cart and flee from temptation. He 
faoed and resisted it. But Prince gave a sudden jerk to the 
reins, thus showing his own disapproval, and for several sec- 
onds it required their united efforts to reduce him to a safe 
trot once more. 

“I do wonder what made him do that, Mr. Walworth. 1 
thought for a moment he was going to run. Well, as I was 
going to say,” oblivious of the fact that her disengaged hand 
was passively lying within his, “she wrote to mamma how it 
was. He had pleaded for so long, had served, so he wrote, 
for fourteen years, as Jacob did, and he must call her 
unjust if she put him off longer; so she gave in in the words 
of Ruth: ‘Whither thou goest I will go; and where thou 
lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people; thy God 
my God.’ It was beautiful.” 

“It was horribly mean to keep him waiting so long — don’t 
you think so?” 

“Of course it was.” 


PASSION PAST. 


313 


“ ‘Love is a smoke made with the fumes of sighs; 

Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in a lovers eyes; 

Being vex’d, a sea nourished with loving tears. 

What else? a madness most discreet ; 

A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.’ 

So hath said the immortal Romeo,” he said; then trying 
to look into the shifting brown eyes, he asked: “Would you 
have done anything so mean?” 

u One can not tell without being tried, 1 suppose; but the 
very idea of any one waiting fourteen years for me is absurd. 
Do let us drive faster, Mr. Walworth. 1 didn’t know Prince 
was so slow.” 

“Admirable, adorable Prince!” he ejaculated fervently. “No 
Coralie, 1 for one would not wait so long. I don’t intend to 
wait one year — no, not three months. You couldn’t put off 
the man you loved in that heartless way? you would do as 
Ruth did?” 

“It’s enough to make the bones of Ruth and Naomi rattle 
in their graves to hear their words used so flagrantly,” she 
said, trying in vain to look indignant. 

“Your theory is false. Why should the words which seem 
so grand when spoken by one woman sound so wicked re- 
peated by another. Don’t be so unreasonable Coralie. Did 
you think I had forgotten this, little girl?” And the next 
instant a tiny withered flower lay in her hand. 

“You never spoke and how was I to know? she asked 
softly, while her eyes suddenly grew misty. 

“I didn’t tell you because I have had no opportunity to tell 
you what a talisman in my wanderings this has been. Surely 
Coralie, it does not require words to tell you all you have 
been to me ever since the first day I saw you. Ynu stole my 
heart that day, you little witch.” 

“And you have lived on for two years without that organ?” 

“Cupid is too merciful to allow the equilibrium of his vic- 
tims to be destroyed in such a way. He kindly fills the vac- 
uum with another heart. I hope you will not be so cruel as 
to thwart the little God will you?” 

“IIow ridiculous you are!” with a disdainful flash of the 
brown eyes. 


314 


PASSION PAST. 


“ 'But I love her heartily. 

For she is wise if I can judge of her: 

And fair she is, of that mine eyes are true. 

And true she is as she hath proved herself, 

And therefore like herself— wise. fair and true, 

Shall she be placed in my inmost soul.’ 

So Coralie, do as Miss Fontaine did. Do not struggle 
against fate, ah! as Hugo says: ‘Fatality begins to smile 
and her virtue suddenly intoxicated staggers,’ you smile — ” 

“Smile!” she replied loftily. 

“ ‘The times have been. 

That when the brains were out the man would die, 

And there an end.’ ” 

“Girls hardly know the strength and height and depth of 
their cruelty,” he said. 

“Here we are at home and I’m not sorry. It seems an age 
since we started,” rejoined the girl with a provoking yawn. 

“Coralie, may I come this evening and see youi father?” 
he pleaded desperately. 

“Mr. Walworth, why in the world do you want to see papa?” 
The young man vouchsafed no answer and not another word 
was spoken until they drew up at the entrance of the carriage 
drive. 

“Miss Woodland,” he said, retaining her hand for a mo- 
ment after assisting her to alight from the cart, “I will say 
good-bye as I shall leave the city in the morning to be gone 
— indefinitely.” 

Although she felt a little tug under her bodice at this 
dreadful threat she would not give way, but looked mischiev- 
ously into his faultless face. 

“So soon, Mr. Walworth? You will surely say good-bye to 
papa and mamma? — ” 

But he lifted his hat and turned away without waiting for 
the mother who appeared in sight that moment. 

The look of anxiety in Ethel’s eyes deepened as her daugh- 
ter turned her own aside, but Woodland, on hospitable 
thoughts intent, inquired: 

“Why didn’t Aylor come in and take lunch with us? What 
have you done to him to make him run away like that?” 


PASSION PAST. 


315 


“Am I Mr. Walworth’s keeper, papa?” she said as "she 
linked her two arms within those of her parents and walked 
up the path without once glancing after the retreating figure. 
Her father looked at her in surprise, then gave a low signifi- 
cant whistle at which her face turned scarlet. 

“Humph! so that’s the way the wind blows — eh? It don’t 
look as if you enjoyed your drive after all? But her mother 
said to herself: 

“It has come at last. This morning she left me a child, she 
has returned to me — a woman. ” 


CHAPTER XLIY. 


Lunch passed off less noisely than usual. Percy’s boyish 
face wore an entirely new look that surprised and puzzled her, 
so dejected and unlike his usual jolly self was he: and when 
she saw her mother after a furtive glance at her brother slyly 
wipe away a tear, she felt that the tear and his dejection were 
connected in some way. 

“You conceited silly little thing,” she told herself, “to im- 
agine yourself the object of all this maternal and fraternal 
solicitude. What has Percy been doing in my absence. 

“Mamma,” she said when they were alone a half hour later, 
“do tell me what is the matter with everybody to-day? Has 
the world turned upside down or what is it ? 

“Everything child, everything to disappoint us,” she said 
her agitation resolving into tears now a vent was found. “All 
our plans of life frustrated just as we were growing happy 
once more in the happiness of our children: just as we fancied 
the darkness of the past dispersed by the brightness of the 
present and the promises of the future.” 

“Mamma, Mamma!” amazed and bewildered at this out- 
burst from her gentle even tempered mother, “What can 
have happened since breakfast to change your plans or des- 
troy your happiness? It is nothing that 1 have done to inter- 
fere with them?” 

“You child, I didn’t think of you — that is, this trouble is 
not connected with you: but it is something that will grieve 
and shock you as it has me.” 

“Oh Mamma don’t keep mein suspense I beg. Has brother 
done an}Thing? — or papa?” 


PASSION PAST. 


317 


“It’s your brother Coralie. He is coaxing your father and 
me, that is me, to consent to some sort of an engagement 
between him and Bessie. ” 

A merry peal of laughter rang out as she grasped the 
absurdity of the thing, while a feeling of relief passed over 
her. 

“Percy get married!” she cried as soon as she was able to 
speak. But the loving girl could not withstand the appeal in 
the tear dimmed eyes so throwing herself at her feet with her 
curly head resting on her knee she said: “It was so funny I 
couldn’t help laughing.” 

“He is your own age, ” moved by her daughter’s ridicule 
to defend her son. 

“But, with a girl it is so different,” unguardedly. 

“Oh my child, am I to lose you both? Am I to live the 
remainder of my life alone, my heart desolate and empty? 1 
knew at once that Aylor had spoken to you: 1 had been try- 
ing to make myself used to the idea thinking I should still 
have a son. Heaven help me if I am to be left childless, 
bereft of both my idols.” 

“Why Mamma,” clasping her own arms lovingly around 
the little woman’s neck, “why desolate and empty ? Nothing 
I am sure can ever lessen Percy’s and my love for you: And 
as for Aylor, I refused him, for I am too young to think of 
such a thing. I shall never leave you for any one, never!” 

And by way of adding emphasis and force to this astound- 
ing declaration, possibly thinking a few tears necessary to 
wash away any lingering doubt in her mother’s mind regard- 
ing her feelings for the young man, she threw her arms about 
her neck and broke into a torrent of weeping. 

“My dear child, why are you crying if you gave him up 
of your own free will ? What a strange girl you are ! I am 
sure if you don’t want to marry Aylor you have a right to 
refuse. ” 

“But, mamma! he is going away from home, again — never 
— to — come — back, boo, hoo, hoo!” 

“Going away never to come back? When and where 
is he going? 


318 


PASSION PAST. 


“In — the — morning he says.” 

“In the morning? Oh, I think not. We may all unite 
and possibly prevail on the young idiot to listen to reason. 
Still, child, I don’t see why his going should make any differ- 
ence to you if you don’t love him.” 

“It don’t, mamma,” she tried to say indifferently, “but 
mamma, it would just break his poor mother’s heart if he 
were to leave home again, and mamma. I donH think Aylor 
an idiot.” 

“Perhaps 1 spoke too hastily. He possesses average men- 
tal powers after all,” she said, turning aside to hide the smile 
impossible to repress at the ingenuous answer. “As for your 
age, Coralie, I was but eighteen when I married your father. 
The reason why you seem a little girl to me is because I was 
defrauded out of thirteen years of your childhood.” 

“I shall never, never leave you mamma; and noAv do tell 
me about this funny idea of Percy’s.” 

“A boy and a girl attachment between the two, it seems; 
though I have been too blind to see it,” she answered Avith a 
sorrowful droop of the pretty mouth. 

“Of course you and papa will not consent, just as he is 
ready for college, too. The veiy idea of brother doing such 
a thing; but mamma, when and how did it happen? Do tell 
me. I’m dying to hear. ” 

“After you went away this morning he came to me with the 
note Aylor gave him, which was to agree to some nonsense 
talked over last night. I could hardly keep from laughing, 
though the dear foolish boy looked wretched enough. It 
seems hard A\ r hen a mother makes the discovery that others 
are supplanting her in the hearts of her children.” 

“But mamma, mamma!” Coralie cried, throwing her arms 
about her as she arose to leave the room, “I’m sure you 
Avould not get rid of Percy so easily, even should there be any- 
thing in this, and Bessie is a dear little thing.” 

“Almost as dear as her brother,” dryly. “By the way! 
Aylor is going in the morning?” pausing long enough to ask. 

“Yes mamma” — in a Aveak little voice that brought a smile 
to the mother’s lips, 


PASSION PAST. 319 

“He will come to say good by. He will not leave without 
that?” 

‘‘Indeed I don’t think he will ever come again. He did 
say something about coming over tonight, but something I 
said made him change his mind.” 

“How capricious the boy must be after all! I shouldn’t 
like to undertake to keep such a one in a pleasant humor for 
life. ” 

“I don’t suppose it will be so hard to do as mamma 
thinks,” the girl said to herself when alone, ‘‘and then 1 must 
be the meanest girl living to talk so to him after he was so 
kind to me that time. Oh dear! somehow I have the blues 
to-day so I don’t care to live a day longer.” 

There was a very sad disconsolate little figure hovering 
about the front of the house all that evening, the brown eyes 
now peeping through the curtains in her own room, now 
through the parlor windows or over the shrubbery between 
the two houses; but Ay lor was nowhere visible and with a 
great lump rising up in her throat she at last assured herself: 

“You know he will never come you little idiot so what is 
the use for you to look?” As twilight gave place to gas 
light her wretchedness increased and with ear alert for every 
footfall she tried to engage in a game of chess with the 
equally wretched Percy. 

“Have you seen any of them this afternoon?” she at last 
whispered across the table, and with a suggestive twirl of her 
finger in the direction of their neighbors. 

“Not a darned one of them,” he whispered back sullenly. 
“She might show her face to a fellow who would gladly wade 
in blood to his knees for her. ” Percy had not forgotten his 
old ideas of chivalry. 

For a moment Coralie regarded the handsome boyish face 
in a hopeless way. “Your brain can hold but one idea just 
now?” she asked just as the sound or a familiar voice fell on 
her ear and her face became rosy red. 

“Mr. Woodland is alone in the library Mr. Aylor,” she 
heard the servant say as the door opened and Besse’s gypsy 
like face appeared. 


320 


PASSION PAST. 


“Brother wished to see your father for awhile and asked 
me to come, too,” she shyly explained, as the two sprang up 
to welcome her. 

But we shall leave the three to regain their composure as 
best they may and follow the young man. 

The father was not surprised. One look into Aylor’s face 
told him the errand upon which be came, and, although 
knowing how useless to struggle longer against the inevitable, 
he rather ungraciously nodded toward a chair, which the 
other accepted, plunging at once into the subject nearest his 
heart. 

“You know why I have come, Mr. Woodland?” 

“Yes, expecting a ‘Bless you, my children,’ after taking 
from me my most precious treasure.” 

“I had hoped, after two years’ waiting, you would consider 
this wish, involving the happiness of my life, with more in- 
dulgence,” he said gloomily. 

“Suppose it is not her wish. Have you said anything to 
Coralie?” Woodland asked sharply. 

“I had intended to speak to you first,” reddening, “but 
you should know how it is with a fellow' when with the girl 
he loves. ” 

“Ay lor,” was the reply, “it would be defrauding Coralie 
of rights any girl should be allowed to exercise, to persuade 
her into this marriage before she has seen something of soci- 
ety and other young men. ” 

“She is not like other girls,” the lover argued. “She is 
too domestic in her nature to care for a butterfly existence as 
a queen of the society from which I would rescue her; still, 
if she should wish for such a life, I have money. I think of 
taking up politics and settling down. 

“Let it be politics or anything else, I don’t doubt your 
ability to make the child happy, for I cannot think of her as 
anything but a child, but I would spare her mother as long 
as possible.” 

“I should not ask her to leave her mother,” Aylor began, 
“that is if she will take me for a son.” 

“Oh, well, have it your way — that is if she decides in your 


PASSION PAST. 


321 


favor. What is the use for me to raise any objections if she 
also wishes it? I wish only her happiness. Wait one mo- 
ment, will you? No time like now to see the thing through,” 
and to the young man’s consternation, in a moment Coralie 
stood tremblingly in the doorway in answer to her father’s 
summons. 

“What is all this, daughter? Did you send this young 
gentleman here?” 

“No indeed, I never, papa. He asked me and I told him 
no. ” 

“You told him no, eh? Then in the name of all the saints 
what shall be done with the interloper? Put him out of the 
house ? ” 

“I can save you that trouble and myself the humiliation of 
being forcibly ejected from the home of my old friend,” said 
the other stiffly. “Of course, as the affair has taken such a 
turn, I shall adhere to my former resolution — to leave home in 
the morning.” 

“And break your poor mother’s heart, Mr. Walworth ?” 
sobbed the girl. “Oh dear! oh dear! why didn’t I stay at 
Uncle Hiram’s rather than cause all this trouble?” 

Two month’s later Clare received a letter from Ethel en- 
closing wedding cards, of which she wrote: 

“My child is to be married in two weeks, as you will see. 
At first I thought I could not bear it, but calmer reflection 
convinced me this would be unwise. The children look for- 
ward to a short visit to Hollidale after going to New Hamp- 
shire for a week. Percy may accompany them as he is so 
anxious to see his friend once more. Is it true these rumors 
I hear, that you are about to leave your old home and come 
north? I shall be glad. (And other rumors I hear, also, the 
truth of which time alone ^aust prove. 1 shall be glad, also, 
for this. ”) 


CHAPTER XLV. 


It is usually with the merry ringing of wedding bells that 
the writer lays down the pen; but to-day there come fresh 
rumors from Oak cottage the truth or falsity of which she 
feels should be laid before the friends of Clare Fontaine. To 
do this it were better for the sake of convenience that the 
writer for a little while assume the first person singular. 

Yes, he came to me this afternoon as I had expected, his 
hands outstretched, his face, which grows handsomer with the 
passing years, illuminated. 

“Which is it Douglas?” I ask pointing to a chair as I fall 
back into my own. 

“It? It’s they,” he replied with a broad grin. I stared 
helplessly at the idiotic face for a moment: then I gasped 
chokingly. “They? How many Douglas?” 

“Only two, dear friend, two great healthy fat babies, and I 
am the happiest father in Hollidale to-day.” 

“Boys or girls Douglas?” 

“My son and daughter came at twelve to-day. Can you 
picture to yourself Clare as the mother of two bouncing 
babies?” A luminous softness coming into the kind eyes. 

“She will be a very happy mother, Douglas. With this 
new blessing of motherhood resting upon her she can feel 
that the past is indeed buried, and from its ashes shall arise a 
wife and mother whose price is far above rubies. The heart 
of the husband shall sarely trust in her and her children shall 
rise up and call her blessed. For her unhappy past Douglas 
she has made the fullest atonement,” I answered earnestly. 

“If you could but stay in Hollidale,” I urged after a mo- 


PASSION PAST. 


323 


mentary silence. “With her new responsibilities she can not 
hope to do much, and surely you can find work here. ” But my 
suggestion met with a demur. 

“One suit of rooms is to be set aside for her own use, and 
though a nominal head, there will be a matron in the person 
of my good old housekeeper and her corps of assistants. It 
is now too late for we have made all our plans to go as soon 
as she and the babies are able to travel: and then, as our last 
argument Clare must be spared the sorrow of seeing her old 
home pass into the hands of strangers. ” 

“She has known much pain and suffering in Oak Cottage, 
Douglas: but, sooner or later these must come to all, as it is 
only through them one can reach perfection. Through sor- 
row Clare has attained a nobility and grandeur of character 
impossible to a butterfly existence.” 

“Only God in his infinite knowledge knows why the really 
noble girl of seventeen was not arrested in the first step that 
led to such unhappy results. ” 

“Of course you have counted the cost of this great under- 
hiking?” I said anxious to draw him from the past to which 
he was drifting. 

“Clare gives all she has made on the stage, which is about 
three hundred thousands; added to this, we hope to receive aid 
by private subscription. Woodland has given ten thousand in 
the name of his children: then, from the fortune left Percy 
and Coral ie by Hereford, they give five thousand each: So you 
you see our “home” is at last a reality.” 

“Put me down for five hundred dollars,” I said modestly. 
“It is not much but it will feed and clothe a few of God’s 
poor. ’Tis said the pen is mightier than the sword, but mine 
has not brought me a fortune.” 

“Your contribution shall be used to fit up one room to be 
named for you. I did not tell you, ” he went on irrelevantly, 
“that we received Coralie’s cards yesterday. They suggested 
the idea of calling the babies, Percy and Coralie. What do 
you think of it?” 

“The very thing. I know both will be pleased, and Wood- 
land will be glad of the assurance that the hatchet is so 


324 


PASSION PAST. 


effectually buried. Poor, little mother! It does seem hard 
that she must give Coralie up so soon. But then,” I went on 
hurriedly, anxious to dissipate the cloud my careless speech had 
brought to his face, “she looks at it in the only sensible way 
after all. My daughter will in time marry, your’s, Douglas, 
when she is old enough; so instead of unreasonable objec- 
tions, let us guide them in choosing wisely,” as he rose. 

kk Clare imposed certain restrictions which I have already 
disregarded, I fear,” looking at his watch, “and as the infantile 
mind is extremely susceptible, I don’t wish those particular 
ones to fancy that I am a neglectful father ” 

“Of all conceivable things the most idiotic is the 
father over his first born.” I called after him, as he hurried 
on his way. I reseated myself at the open window and as my 
eyes followed the broad shouldered graceful figure receding 
in the distance, my mind traveled backward over the past 
years. 

At the time of her marriage Clare had spent money lav- 
ishly on the improvement and furnishing of Oak cottage, 
Never had expectant bridegroom taken keener delight in 
preparing and beautifying a home for his young bride than 
she now did when the time for her marriage was decided 
upon, for in so doing, she felt that she was but paying a just 
tribute to the intended husband. 

Meanwhile, as the improvements were being pushed along, 
an upheaval w r as taking place in the parish at Lakeview. 
Discord and strife were breaking out between the higher .social 
element and the opposite faction, until but a feather’s weight 
was needed to culminate in open hostilities. 

Mrs. D, who, by the way, was utterly devoid of a proper 
sense of her own inferiority, felt at times aggrieved and 
envious that Mrs. A and Mrs. B should merely wish to make 
a tool of her in their efforts to replenish the treasury of the 
parish. 

“If I am not good enough to meet them socially I am too 
good to be used as a mere convenience because my mother 
taught me to sew.” She sometimes confided to her conjugal 
other half. With his low church tendencies Douglas’ sym- 


PASSION PAST. 


325 


pathies were naturally with the poor people of his parish, 
which, of course meant his own decapitation. 

Mrs. A, wife of Lakeview’s one millionare, Mrs. B, whose 
husband possessed but fifty per cent, of the former gentle- 
man’s wealth, and Mrs. C, D and E chanced to form the quin- 
tette that met at the residence of the last lady for the purpose 
of fashioning and constructing sundry garments, the sale of 
which went to swell the sacred exchequer, as well as weighing 
and deliberating upon sundry bits of gossip of the past week. 

“Oh Mrs. B!” said the millionaire’s lady, as she wiped a 
tear of wounded pride from her eye, U I never realized until 
my recent visit to New r York, when I accompanied my friend 
to that very exclusive and richly adorned church, how com- 
mon and plain our own is — just as if we were too poor to 
possess a better one. ’ 

“Just as if we were too poor.” echoed the less wealthy 
lady, “and my dear Mrs. A, don’t you think for the sake of 
our children, just entering society as well, something should 
be done? I leave it to you, also, Mrs. C,” turning rather 
patronizingly to that lady. 

‘ ‘Something should be done,” this minor echo came so 
faintly as scarcly to be heard, while Mrs. D tossed her pretty 
head disdainfully, and the hostess was too frightened for even 
this demonstration. The joy and happiness derived from 
the presence of fifteen hundred thousand under her humble 
roof was in itself overwhelming, and she had always thought 
her friend, Mrs. D, too assertive for her own good in the 
presence of these great social powers. 

“And as our husbands constitute the vestry, nominally 
speaking,” rejoined the first with a little lady like nod and 
wink, “I think it behooves their wives to say something shall 
be done.” 

“Something shall be done,” and then the echo died away in 
a shrill whisper, “and although unprepared to vouch for the 
veracity of it dear Mrs. A, there seems to be a rumor afioat 
that our rector is about to marry the actress Madmoiselle 
D’Harleville, which it seems is an old attachment.” 

“Mrs. Fletcher herself told me it was true.” 


326 


PASSION PAST. 


Four pairs of eyes were at once turned upon the meek little 
speaker with new interest, and for the first time in her life 
Mra. E, felt a true sense of her own social importance. That 
she should be able to contribute this tit bit first handed, caused 
her to flush with pride, and she could have wept tears of joy 
when the millionairess exclaimed: 

“Why Mrs. E! well, that settles this question. To 

expect his long tried people to expose their innocent daugh- 
ters to the pernicious influence of such an immoral woman is 
the crowning insult, one must draw the line somewhere, 
Mrs. B.” 

“It is the crowning insult; and one must draw the line 
somewhere. Don’t you think so Mrs. C?” said the major 
echo. 

“One must draw the line somewhere,” replied the minor 
dutifully. 

“How sad it is to see one, whom we have for so long 
looked upon as one of the chosen vessels of the Lord, descend 
so low as to pass by our own sweet girls and marry so 
terrible a person!” 

“So terrible a person dear Mrs. A! To descend so low; 
but I have for a long time had doubts and misgivings about 
Mr. Maitland. I do think it would take very little to make a 
Methodist of him any way.” 

“What a narrow escape we have had and how thankful we 
should feel to Mrs. E. here, for telling us in time. I shall 
speak to my husband to-night as head of the vestry. I think 
you all agree to this, that our husbands ask Mr. Maitland to 
resign?” 

“We all agree to this, that our husbands ask Mr. Maitland 
to resign, dear Mrs. A.” 

“Our husbands should ask Mr. Maitland to resign,” fol- 
lowed up the minor. 

“Mine, I’m sure, will be delighted to act with Mr. A and 
Mr. B,” came faintly from the meek little hostess. 

“Very well, Mrs. E. ; now this vexed question is off of our 
minds, we will begin with our work. What have we on 


PASSION PAST 


327 


hand ? Ah, those aprons for your cook’s child. Quite a nice 
little order, Mrs. B. ” 

“Yes, quite a nice little order, dear Mrs. A.; and she is 
really needing them. 1 told my cook we would make them 
just as cheaply as she could buy them elsewhere, and even 
the two at twenty-five cents apiece is not to be thrown away. 
Fifteen cents will pay for the gingham and thread for each, 
so there is a clear profit of ten cents.” 

Thus for full ten minutes they talked and sewed. Then 
one folded up the sleeve she had finished, observing: 

4 ‘I think I must leave you now, as I have an errand or two 
down town ” 

44 So soon? Really I had no idea it was so late, Mrs. C. 
Just wait one moment for me. We may as well walk down 
together. I don't know, Mrs. E., when I have spent so de- 
lightful an hour ” 

44 And just think! we have almost finished one apron,” 
came in the clear cutting tones of Mrs. D. k4 I think by 
working very hard next Thursday we shall be able to make 
the other and finish this one — I mean, of course, if we all 
come. Having to dispose of poor Mr. Maitland to-day, we 
could not hope to do so well.” 

44 But have we decided where to meet next Thursday?” 
asked the millionaire’s lady, coloring slightly under the irony 
of the last speaker. 44 No? Well you know my house is 
always at the disposal of the ‘Ladies’ Aid.’ Shall it be 
there?” There was not one dissenting voice, for to meet at 
the house of that lady meant refreshments in the way of ice 
cream and cake, and where is the woman impervious to these ? 

There was one little woman, Mrs. D., into whose heart all 
the unkind words spoken that day had taken root, and on her 
way home there was a secret conference with good Mrs. 
Fletcher, the outcome of which was, that at the meeting of 
the vestry the following week that august body was astounded 
to find the resignation of their rector had preceded them. 

At Clare’s earnest solicitation he resolved to give himself a 
year or two of rest and quiet at Hollidale before entering 
upon their mutual work; so she said that money should not 


328 


PASSION PAST. 


be spared in preparing her home for his reception. A room 
or two had been added, alterations in others made to better 
adapt them to modern requirements. 

Then, on the day when all the earth seemed to be rejoicing 
and joining in that glad song, “Glory to God in the highest! 
Peace on earth, good will to man!” she, for the second time, 
bade him welcome to Oak Cottage. And a few hours later 
she spoke the words which made her his wife. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 


Two years passed away, quiet happy years for both, and 
now the time is come when we must say adieu to our friends, 
Clare and Douglas, just at the time the two are about to say 
adieu to Hollidale. Our last good-bye is *on the day that 
Douglas is starting to New York to make final arrangements 
for their migration to that city. 

Clare is standing at a front window looking out upon the 
row of ugly stakes which mark the surveyor’s track, and 
which also proclaim her an alien in the house of her fathers. 
As she stands there in all the glory of her magnificent wo- 
manhood, one can see the changes wrought by the passing 
years; but wherein lay the changes one can hardly tell, un- 
less it be in the great dark eyes from which have vanished 
the signs of the smouldering fires, unsatisfied longing and the 
unsounded depths of human passions, of the old days. 

She turned at sound of an opening door, and confronted 
her husband who held an open letter in his hand. 

“This means ‘extras’ to beautify our ‘home’ in the way of 
pictures, birds and conservatories for the children,” he cried 
gayly as he gave it to her. “From Florence Barrett you see 
Clare.” 

“Oh, how glad I am that she has remembered you, Doug- 
las! A check for five thousand! Douglas, I have often won- 
dered why you two couldn’t have fallen in love with one an- 
other, you seemed so well suited to one another. 

“I met and loved you, Clare,” in such a convincing tone 
that she laughed. “My wife,” he went on, “it is almost time 
for my train, and I must say good-bye.” 


330 


PASSION PAST. 


“I fear, Douglas, I lack the essential elements of a soldier’s 
wife when the time comes to buckle on your armor and send 
you from me. We have been very happy, my husband. ” 

“So happy that I have feared at times we were growing 
selfish Clare: But the first breath of spring will bring me 
home for you and the babies.” 

“I am ashamed of these Douglas. There! You shall not 
see another one, ” Hinging the tears from her eyes. “The 
minute I hear the whistle I shall begin work in earnest.” 

“But the babies! Remember they must not be neglected,” 
he protested. 

“The babies shall have every care. After all it will be 
better to have you out of the way there is so much to be done. 
Mrs. Fletcher and I can manage better without you. The 
babies to look after, all our household idols to tear down and 
pack away. But let us go dear and spend the last moment 
with the darlings.” 

In a moment they stood beside the cot that held their all — 
two beautiful dark eyed cherubs. 

; “How are they, nurse? Any new mental developments 
since noon ?” the father asked of that neat looking function- 
ary who moved aside at their entrance: 

“I’m sure I hardly know what you mean sir, but never in 
my life did I see anything like them blessed babies. That 
little dear was sayin’ “dad, dad,” as plain as ever you did just 
as you come in. ” 

He turned his clear searching eyes full upon her pretty 
face, but she met his incridulous look unabashed. 

“Mother, I am almost overcome with wonder to discover 
the lingual talent so astonishingly developed in a young lad} r 
of two months. ” 

“Nurse doesn’t mean to say that baby, Coralie, can speak 
more distinctly than her brother can, I’m sure,” the mother 
rejoined jealously. 

“I don’t know ma’am, though somehow he mumbles every- 
thing together so, though for the matter of that he’ll get over 
it when he’s older,” she answered doubtfully. 

‘ "They are both phenomenally bright babies and 1 fail 


PASSION PAST. 


331 


to see the distinction. Now, Douglas, could there be any- 
thing lovelier than this wonderful boy?” kissing the baby 
mouth and tiny clenched fist to which he responded with a 
baby coo. 

“Dearest, what a little bundle of vanity this young lady is 
becoming; see her trying to swallow this ring.” 

“1 must check the evil tendency at once by removing the 
temptation, though, of course, it’s not the wisest plan to take 
always. I did’nt tell you, did I, that the ring came in a let- 
ter this morning — ” 

“From Coralie? Then they are at home again?” 

“Had been home but a day or two. She wanted her name- 
sake to have the ring.” 

“Those two, fancy they have reached the highest altitude of 
human happiness, with love and youth — ” she checked the 
low spoken words by laying her hand on his arm with a 
pleading tenderness he understood. 

“ ’Tishard, sweetheart, to lay the ghosts of past days, that 
will at times rise unbidden,” she said, “but we will succeed 
yet. Having tasted, as I have, the bitterness of life to its 
very dregs until the senses seemed to have reached the very 
border line of utter despair, can you wonder that I dread 
their approach?” 

He saw the mist gather in the glorious dark eyes and drew 
her to him. 

“Forgive me dearest. You and I are infinitely happier, for 
our love has been consecrated by suffering, while theirs is 
rosy hued and unproven.” 

Yet in spite of his reassuring words, she knew she could 
never quite take away the feeling of regret lingering in both 
their hearts, that they had missed this same rosy hued happi- 
ness that belongs only to wedded youth. 

“Consecrated by suffering,” she repeated, “but God will- 
ing our future shall make amends for our unhappy past. 1 
have thought so much of all these things while the mother 
love was growing up in my heart in the past months, which I 
may not have learned to do had my life been a happy one. 
With the birth of my babes came new perceptions of a broad- 


332 


PASSION PAST. 


er, fuller life, an awakening of new sympathies for the less 
happy.” 

“Dear heart, you are the best and sweetest — the perfect 
embodiment of God’s best gift to man.” 

He left her thus, her head, encircled by the halo of 
motherhood, bending over the tiny cot which held her babes. 

And a prayer of thankfulness went up from her heart in 
that moment, for the haven in which her storm-tossed soul 
had found an abiding place — that all the old passions had 
died — were things of the past — expiated and buried. 


THE END. 


HERMAN BOOTH THE ATHEIST, 

Is a novel now being written by Madam Leighton, and 
which she hopes to publish in a few months. 

Her aim is the portrayal of “A Product of Modern 
Society,” as the hero calls himself, and is written on lines 
entirely different from “Passion Past.” The unabated 
interest of the reader is held to the close, dealing, as it does, 
with some of the immoralities of the day. 


KATHRYN LLOYD, 

A NOVEL. 

Daisy Leighton is now engaged in writing a novel under 
the above title, which she hopes to bring before the public 
within the year. 

In portraying the life of the young heroine she has made 
the story interesting, pure and pathetic. 



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